


in my sleep i dreamed of waking

by tascheter



Series: when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close [1]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Canon-Atypical Swearing, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Slow Burn, missing scenes from late s3, some canon scenes, tender (sfw) monsterfuckery (eventually)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter
Summary: Her memories come back, eventually.(Therealproblem is who comes back with them.)





	1. dreams of knives (prologue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the concussion, she dreams of knives.

They're in her kitchen, drinking coffee, when it starts.

"You mustn't tell," he says. He's almost boyishly excited, leaning over the surface of the counter, like she's gotten a real secret out of him at last; but he's so conspiratory, so surprisingly earnest, she can't help but buy into it, too. "It's—not exactly an alteration. A personal emendation, you might say. An acquaintance of mine once actually got his hands on the original recipe—"

"Wait, wait. You mean, like—like a foodblog recipe, or like the little Victorian napkin Cakeman McWhatshisface actually wrote down his instructions on?" She's not trying to be flirty, but it comes out like that anyway, and really, that's just the magic of it—lately, she hasn't had to try to flirt with him at all. It just happens, and even better, he flirts _back_, and it's _great_. "'Cause—I dunno, Walt. I can definitely see some of your friends having ties with black-market European pastry contacts." She bumps her shoulder against his. "Just, like—an entire network of operatives, ready for international confectionary intrigue. Like something out of a Wes Anderson film."

He laughs, still flushed and almost-flustered from whatever fancy little liquor he'd brought for their French-press after-dinner coffee. Or—she'd like to think—from just how close they are at her breakfast bar, close enough to bump shoulders, close enough for their knees to touch.

"You know, I wouldn't put it past Otto, actually." He's so cool, and thoughtful, and charming, when he says it; and she thinks again, _God_, his friends sound like they'd be great at parties. "He has his hands in—if you'll forgive the pun—a great many pies."

"Ugh, _Walt._" She attempts, and fails, to resist the impulse of kicking him in the leg, while he just laughs again. "Nope. Sorry, that was _awful_."

"It is true, though. He has the contacts—his day job is in art brokerage, or auctions, or...something." He tilts his head. "Maybe Sotheby's?"

"Oh, Lord. Is this what 'posh' is? Are all your friends 'posh?'"

"Comes with the territory, I'm afraid." He shrugs, resigned. "Your polo pony and inflated sense of self-importance are in the mail."

His delivery is so deadpan, so serious, she nearly snorts into her coffee. She smacks him again for good measure, trying not to let him see her laughing, because she _likes_ these jeans, dammit.

"You are a _bastard_."

"Please, Barbara. I am not infrequently the subject of highschool graffiti." The look he gives her is so _haughty_, she almost snorts again. "If you're going for the throat, you'll need sharper knives than that."

"You _are_. Bastards don't get to—to woo their girlfriends with dinner crepes from Benoit's. Or fancy, boozy coffee. Or—" She tries to remember how he'd said it. "Or whatever soccer-tort is."

"_Sachertorte_." His voice is so soft, so fond, she wants to bury her face in her hands. "It's—I suppose it's only a matter of taste, just like anything. D'you know, I can still remember the first time I had it."

She leans her head onto her hand, content with the view. "That's a high endorsement, I'd say."

He laughs, though she can tell, he's a little self-concious. "It's the contrast," he explains. "When I was young, I—that is, we weren't raised with much in the way of sweets—"

"Really?" She raises a dubious eyebrow. "I've seen the way you take your tea."

"A luxury of independent adulthood, my dear." His voice turns playful, though there's a spark there, too. "Would you believe I never had chocolate until after graduating from university?"

Her eyes go wide. "Bull_shit _you did."

"I swear to you. One of the wonders of the modern world." He's grinning again, though, swirling the last of his coffee slow and satisfied around a borrowed cheesy doctor mug (_look what the cat scan dragged in_, a gift from Jim, eight birthdays ago). "That's part of why I like the cake so well, I think. The dense, creamy alkali of the chocolate, against the acid and sugar of the apricot jam, bright as sunlight..."

She tries not to make a face. "Chocolate and apricot?"

"Any mediocre execution is forgettable, of course." He's so confident, so matter-of-fact, about this thing she's never seen nor tasted. It makes her—it makes her _want_ to want to try it. "But made well, and with care—with, say, some homemade apricot schnapps?"

She groans, again, though she can't hide her smile. "I don't know, Walt. Fruity booze and chocolate sounds an awful lot like some terrible decisions I made in college."

"Only in college?" His eyes light up. That grin is absolutely _electric_. "Perhaps we should be making up for lost time."

"You are_—bad_," she sputters, like she's not laughing, and giddy, and forgetting her coffee, and dumb with feelings for the first time in years. This is—for the first time since the divorce, she feels like—

(She can't think it, even in her head. It's a thought too big, too real, too _corny_ to voice. He makes her feel things she thought she'd left behind. He makes her feel like she's like standing between a mirror and the sun, feeling the warmth from both sides.)

He breaks her reverie with a soft kiss to the back of her hand. His eyes are so fond.

"Your coffee is getting cold," he says, gently.

"I'm—working on it." She wasn't always such a lightweight, she doesn't say; time was, it took a lot more than pleasant company and a coffee toddy to make her feel this sleepy, and warm, and content. She doesn't say: she can't remember what it used to take, and doesn't want to. "I'm not _that_ slow, we've just been—talking."

"Mm, yes." He drains the last of his cup, before shooting her a mischievous sideways glance. "Though said talking had included promises of artwork, if I remember correctly...?"

"Oh. _Walt._" She's pretty sure the blush she's sporting can be seen from space. She had completely forgotten. "You weren't really serious, were you? They're just little things to blow off steam after work, they're all—amateurish."

"A term that derives, you must know, from the Latin word for _love._" His soft, easy smile turns into something warmer. "And to see what you create for love—I can hardly imagine anything more _lovely_."

"I _will_ clobber you, mister. Your sweet-talking will not save you."

"I meant it!" He's laughing, again. "I don't think we've ever talked about art before, so you can't know my tastes—"

"I know you have friends who work at Sotheby's!"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Otto's judgment is questionable, at best. Yours, however, I've found to be much more impressive."

And, okay, that was pretty smooth. As much as she pretends otherwise, she's not completely immune to flattery. 

He gives her another disarmingly earnest look. "At least tell me about them, if nothing else?"

"We-ll." She makes a show of considering. "I'm on a big abstraction kick, at the moment. Actually, most of them—well, don't laugh."

He bumps his shoulder against hers. "My dear, I would never."

"I know, I know. It's just—I've been having these dreams, lately." She bites her lip, still just a little shy, as she holds her hands around the mug. "They're so real, at the time, but so—_weird_. So much imagery, like—like they're obviously not memories, but they _feel_ like it, despite being things that can only happen in dreams."

He hums, like he's familiar with the thought. "They say the two aren't so different as you might expect."

"Alright, Mr. Philosophy Major." Her smile turns half-wistful. "I actually started painting again just to have some kind of outlet," she explains. "Stress at work, worrying about Jim...y'know. Of course, when he saw me working on one the other day—"

"His refined, incisive critique nourished and uplifted your creative impulses?

She bats at his arm again, even as she laughs, despite herself. "Oh, he hated it. The dream was so funny—there was this little blue demon man, with the voice of Frasier Crane—but Jim just made this _face_." She gives her impression of it, like sucking on a lemon, before relaxing her features into something more thoughtful. "Maybe 'fantastic cubism' just doesn't translate to canvas."

"Well, now I'm intrigued."

"Aw, no." She takes another drink of coffee, squinching up her eyes. "Don't go getting expectations—"

"But you exceed them. Regularly, and with such skill."

"Man, Strickler, you are laying it on heavy tonight. What did you do? Do I need to help you hide a body?"

He grins. "Merely a statement of the facts, my dear."

"I appreciate the sentiment." A thought occurs to her, sudden and wild. "Although...speaking of bodies, I've never worked with a live model before."

He picks up on the game without missing a beat. "Is that an invitation?"

"Maybe. Is that a yes?"

"I'd hate to ruin your theme."

She gives him a demure, sideways glance. "Who says I've never dreamt of you?"

"Why, my _dear_ doctor." His eyes are absolutely alight. "Consider it a promise, then_—_"

* * *

They're on the couch, in her living room, when it starts.

"It's not like I don't remember being sixteen." If she feels a little like a teenager again as she says it, curled up under a comforter, in a thunderstorm, _this_ close to crying into her boyfriend's shoulder, at least she doesn't have to worry about a curfew. She pulls her feet up beneath her. "It's just—we used to be so close, Walt. He used to tell me everything. And now—sneaking out of the house? Breaking into the _museum_?"

"I won't deny he's stirred up a heap of trouble," he says. The words sound—oddly familiar, but his arm over her shoulders is warm, and pleasantly grounding, and she doesn't think on it. "Nor pretend I have any experience in the raising of children, for that matter. But I remember adolescence being a...difficult age."

She rolls her eyes, though the thought of teen delinquent Walt almost succeeds in making her laugh. "I have a hard time imagining you being _difficult_."

"They don't call them the Dark Ages for nothing." A quirk of his lips, just teasing. Then, more serious: "You tend to believe the best of people, my dear."

He looks over to her, only for a second, his expression gentle and unreadable. The effect is only enhanced by the soft orange light of the candles, flickering over his features, and she thinks—well. The word she's thinking has been hidden in her heart for a long while; she's still not ready, not yet, to let it fly so freely. Let her hold onto it for a while longer.

"Jim may be in a rough patch now, but you're raising him well," he goes on. "At the risk of sounding trite—perhaps the only way out is through."

It does sound trite, but she knows it's also the exact answer she didn't want to hear. Outside, the storm beats a tattoo on the window, but it's softened, a little, by that small, secret smile. She groans, and covers her face with her hand.

"God, Walt. This must be the worst date ever."

He laughs, unusually surprised. "All this talk of Jim, and _that's_ what you're worrying about?"

"It's so stupid." It _sounds_ stupid, but—it's true. "I'm the one who invited you over, but I've just been. Moping."

He nearly huffs. "Your son's decidedly vexing extracurriculars might warrant a little moping, now and then." But his eyes turn soft. "After that text, I wasn't about to leave you alone."

"Still." She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. "Grading papers by candlelight while a Totally Empowered Adult Woman _mopes_ beside you on the couch? Not exactly my idea of a hot and happening Friday night."

"Ah, well. As you can see, I'm making good headway on that grading." The papers are currently sitting in his bag, somewhere in her foyer, exactly where he'd dropped it after coming through the door. "You're worried about Jim. Dare I say it, Barbara, you're allowed to worry about your own child."

"I know that." It comes out a little sharper than she means it to, a little more frayed, but she does. She _does_. "It's just..."

"It doesn't mean you're not doing the best you can. Or that you're weak, or doing something wrong. It means you're a good person."

She rolls her eyes, though fondly, and maybe a little bit to cover how hard the compliment made her blush. "Is this your normal advice for this kind of situation, or is this just a _very special_ parent-teacher meeting?"

"You're not the only one to worry, my dear." He shoots her a soft, sideways glance. Thunder rumbles, and the candle flames flicker and dance as she feels the sound roll over her. "You really do carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you know. Like mother, like son."

She bites her lip. She feels—_seen_, in a way she hasn't in a long while. Not a bad way, necessarily. There's something more, under the words, but she—

"It's my job to protect him." Again, the words feel incredibly familiar, but she shakes the feeling off. She swirls the wine distractedly around her glass. "He—he shouldn't be putting himself in danger like this. He should be worried about high school, and girls, not—not _monsters_."

—_wait, what?—_

"Jim is...in an unenviable position." He leans up for a moment to set his own glass down on the coffee table, and the sudden absence of his arm around her is keenly felt. "True of most Trollhunters, incidentally, but at his age..."

Something about that word catches in her ears, a weird discordant note against the rest of the conversation. The déjà vu comes back, stronger this time. She's certain she's heard it before, but she can't place it, and—it makes her feel like she's forgotten something, something unimaginably important. It makes her feel like she's being watched.

"He's just a kid," she says. Something cold and foreboding is collecting in a ball in her stomach, but she tries to ignore it. "He can't be a soldier, he—he's just a _kid_."

His expression turns somber. "There are those, my dear, who would say the distinction is a luxury."

A chill creeps down her back. There's half a thought, there, something shining, slick and bright, just beneath the surface of memory. It's a thread very clearly marked _do not pull_. But—

The way he says it sounds like he knows what's at the other end.

"Walt," she says. She's faintly impressed that her voice is so steady. "What do you know about this?"

His eyes flick over to her, somehow simultaneously unashamed and apologetic. "That I would have avoided it, if I could."

Her knuckles go white around the glass.

"And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

"Vendel said you were going to forget."

"Who's—_Vendel_?" Her mind supplies the image of one of her paintings downstairs, milk-white eyes set in creamy, marble skin, but—_wait_, she wants to say; _no, no,_ _that can't be right, that was just a dream—_

"You weren't supposed to be there," he says. His voice is resigned, but his eyes are wide, almost pleading. In the warm, low light of the candles, they're startlingly green. "What happened that night—"

"What _happened_ to my son?"

"Surely we can both agree that neither of us want him to go it alone?"

"What is that even supposed to _mean_?" She's making a valiant, and losing, effort to keep her breathing steady. Her heart is beating like a rabbit's, like it's about to leap out of her chest. "If you did something to him—if he's in danger, because of you, I swear—"

She's halfway off the couch when she's stopped by the feel of his hand around hers.

"Barbara," he says. His voice is so small. "You really think so little of me?"

The guilt the words prompt cuts more keenly than she'd expected. In dark of the house lit only by candlelight, it's almost a physical sensation: one that she can practically feel, a pinch curving cold and acid round her throat.

Until she realizes—it's not guilt, it's _not_ metaphorical. She draws her free hand up—

He just smiles, though, that stupid, wistful, care-worn half-grin. It hurts to think the look is _adoring_, not with three ragged slashes, wild and purple and _glowing_, curling around the column of his neck. He's looking up at her like she's the only thing in the world.

"Your son can do things no one else can," he says, like that explains anything. Like it explains _everything_. "With the world at stake, wouldn't you play dirty, too?"

She opens her mouth to answer, when a clap of lightning pierces through the gloom, and—

* * *

They're in her basement, when it starts.

She knows what this is, now. She doesn't know how she knows. But she knows, too, with the true and terrifying certainty of a dream, that she knows how this dream will end.

"I can help you, Barbara." His voice is fond, but his eyes are worried. She doesn't like the way he keeps looking up at the ceiling. "This tunnel leads to the sewers. You can get to the street this way; if you leave, you'll be safe."

She yanks her hand away from him, and tries not to show her surprise when he actually lets her. Paintings are stacked thick against the walls around them—more than she's ever done, she knows now, more than she ever could do—but they only add to the overwhelming feeling that something is badly, horribly wrong.

"Leaving is what caused all this grief in the first place," she says. She doesn't want to know what'll happen if she touches the canvases, so—she balls her fists. "You—I remember—you don't just get to fucking _ghost_ people, Walt!"

Standing like this, caught in the eerie glow of the furnace, the awful purple light from his neck is all the more jarring. She can see the cuts, she can _feel_ them, warm and wet and shining, as clearly as if they were on her own skin.

"At least let me say it again: I would have avoided this, if I could." His eyes are tight. "My hand was forced. Believe me when I say this isn't how I wanted things to turn out."

"Welcome to being a goddamn adult," she snaps. "You don't get to run away from your problems just because something is messy. Just because it's got some ragged edges, it doesn't mean you get to—to forgo basic fucking human decency—"

She can't shake the feeling that she's missing something important. This whole scenario feels too real, too familiar, like a joke everyone's in on but her.

Outside, the storm is picking up again. The sound of the rain, mixed with thunder, sets her teeth on edge—pouring waves too close to footfalls, too loud and present for comfort in a nightmare—and suddenly, under the anger, she's itching with the need to _do_.

There's a shovel leaning against the wall, just beside the stairs.

"You don't want to go up there." He says the words carefully, like they've got a sharp edge.

She presses her lips together. "Do you really think you can stop me?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer. She darts out and grabs the shovel, dashing up the stairs, spoiling for a fight, only to find—

Nothing. Or at least—a scene of conspicuous nothing.

It's still dark. A flick of the nearby switch confirms: the power is still out. The closer she looks, the stronger the impression of déjà vu becomes. But something is—off. Even in the dark, the space is familiar, but there's something off about it, some invisible difference she can't put her finger on.

She ducks into the kitchen, feeling slightly ridiculous with the shovel in her hands, when the thought occurs to her: the only thing that's not subtly _wrong_ about this is the décor. That's her old fridge—the sight of it gives her a pang of nostalgia—and those are her grandmother's cast-iron skillets, and the hand-me-down-microwave, right next to the knife block Jim picked out for his tenth birthday. As far as she can see, the house looks exactly as it has for the past ten years.

Exactly as it did, in fact, before her recent "redecoration."

She brings another hand up around the shovel. Then, she crouches down, back to the oven door, and settles in for a siege.

When Walt ghosts up beside her, she nearly jumps out of her skin. Somewhere between the basement and the ground floor, he's acquired an alarming collection of small, steel-grey knives.

"I take it you feel it, too," he says. The knives look uncannily familiar in his sure, steady hands, and she tries desperately not to think about why.

"What—what _is_ this, Walt? I know this is from before I hit my head." Her bravado from earlier, down in the basement, is gone, and in its absence lingers something cold and tight. Then, in a voice much steadier than she feels: "This wasn't a robbery, was it?"

He gives her an apologetic look. "Nothing so mundane, I'm afraid."

Which answers absolutely nothing, of course. For a moment, she's so totally overwhelmed with frustration she thinks she could scream: it's like she's having this entire conversation backwards, like she's reliving this entire _idiotic_ series of events in perfect reverse; of course he doesn't know, because this is a _dream_. He doesn't know, because she doesn't know. She might as well have asked the shovel, or the fridge—

Then, she hears his words again. _Nothing so mundane_.

"_Walt_," she says.

Lightning flashes again through the windows, giving his features a brief, ghostly highlight. For half a moment, all she can see is the shadow of the skull beneath the face.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he says, finally. Like that's an explanation.

He won't meet her eyes. He looks—uneasy. Part of her thinks she should be worried. But to be completely honest, she's pretty distracted by the part of her that's _mad_.

She shifts onto the soles of her feet, and tightens her grip around the shovel.

"I'm going to figure out what happened here." She hardens her voice. "Come or don't. But like I said: I'm done running away from my problems."

She springs up from her spot in the kitchen and ducks into the hall. The dining room looks like a mess, which is new; the boarded-up window and overturned piles of shelving give her a bad feeling, like looking at the aftermath of an earthquake. Here, too, she gets the feeling that there's something she isn't seeing, but she's too focused on staving off her growing sense of dread to spare much of an eye for detail.

From there, she pads over to the edge of the living room. The feeling only gets worse. The storm is roaring outside, and the only real light to speak of is still the one bleeding weird and violet from the side of Walt's neck.

She doesn't like this. It's too dark, too empty, too purposely _nothing_.

"I tried to tell you." His voice at her shoulder is a surprise in the darkness, though she's almost proud of how she doesn't jump (much).

She wants to snap at him, something witty and cutting and _hurt_, but—something stops her. Instead, she thinks of _adulthood_, of being the kind of person she wants Jim to want to be.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," she says. Better, she thinks, to cut right to the chase. "Do you know what happened here?"

"Only as much as you do, my dear."

Another not-answer, which, to be fair, she probably should have expected. But here, now, it just rubs her the wrong way. She _doesn't_ know; she doesn't remember. That's exactly the problem!

"We've already been down this road once before," he explains. "You won't be happy doing it again."

"You think this is _happy_?" She could've throttled him. "Something's wrong here, Walt! Something that involves you, and me, and Jim, something that left my home looking like a _warzone_—"

A flash of light comes through the window, and she's interrupted by the biggest clap of thunder she's ever heard. She's never heard it so close before, loud and near enough to wake the dead: for a moment, she's nothing more than a terrified child, frozen in the sudden pitiless sound. Her ears are ringing, but even through the lingering afterimage, she can _see_ the lightbulbs popping out of their fixtures.

And as it's followed by an eerie, violet glow, she realizes: she's seen that light.

"This—this is where the monster came," she says. The realization hits like the lightning: it wasn't just Walt and her, Jim was here, too, fighting—_something_, something alien and terrible, that spoke in a voice as deep as the thunder. She remembers this, she realizes faintly. She _remembers_, which means that this isn't a dream at _all_—

"Oh, my darling." His voice is so close, and so warm. He must be just behind her. "You have _no_ idea."

She whips her head around, but what she sees—it isn't him. His eyes are alight, and—_no_, she realizes, they're literally _glowing_, like hot coals, like a lunar eclipse; she trips over her own feet trying to back away, and when she falls flat on her ass, she's still scrabbling across the floor so frantically she can hear the knickknacks jump when she hits the bookshelf.

"What _are_ you_?"_

The thing wearing Walt's face smiles, beatific and intent.

"Someone who can help your son."

The voice that speaks the words is his. The cadence is his, the care is his, so near and familiar it could only be realized in a dream. Except it's not him—not anymore; even through the weird purple light, even as she knows it can't be right, she knows, she _knows_ what she's seeing. The thing standing before her is a twilight Leyendecker, a Klimtian devil: eyes gleaming gold inside a fan of silver knives, all silhouetted under a halo of two long, long alabaster horns.

In a flash of the sudden, fool-bright bravery that comes only in dreams, she steels her voice.

"And how the fuck," she says, "do you think you could help my son?"

Not-Walt looks at her, uncowed by the fire of the words. His expression shifts into something so tender, so gentle, she almost breaks. She hates, she _hates_ how easily it comes back to her, even here, even in a dream—how easily she wants to reciprocate that openness, how that face, faint and distorted as it is, is still the one she'd once dreamt of holding in her hands.

"What would you do, if it meant you'd save the world?" He offers the question like a gift: like it's _not_ a question, like it's the only answer in the world. The apple and the serpent, both in one. "Barbara," he says, so earnest it _hurts_, "if it meant the world—what _wouldn't_ you do?"

The air around them hangs heavy with the perfume of smoke. _The candles_, she thinks, faintly, absurdly—but the house is dark, the candles nowhere to be found; she realizes, only belatedly, that this must mean something is burning—

* * *

—and then, before she can answer, she wakes to the sound of her alarm, and the memory flies. All she's left with is a profound sense of wrongness dissipating like mist into the thin dawn light, the single afterimage of a fever dream that had come and gone like lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! first chapter, finally published. real life + the vagaries of editing mean i can't promise a consistent update schedule, but rest assured: this fic is finished and en route to publication. i'm so excited to share my take on these dweebs; thank you for reading!


	2. drama night

As it turns out, getting your magically-repressed memories back doesn't _actually_ solve as many problems as you might think.

Since earlier that afternoon—after finally hearing the truth from Jim about the past few months, after surviving a goblin home invasion, and then seeing the kids off on some wild wizard goose chase—Barbara's still not exactly sure whether having her memories back is a blessing or a curse. One the one hand, the concentrated, disjointed bundle of imagery certainly sheds some light on her more inexplicable paintings. (Not to mention the _dreams_.) On the other, with Jim gone, she's been unusually busy playing hostess to three borderline-hysterical grown human adults, plus a recently-defected, still probably-evil troll. She hasn't exactly had a lot of time to process.

It's a testament to how weird this day has been, she thinks, that she doesn't even question the knocking at her door. Maybe she just lives in a world now where her house is the hot and happening place for cool, traumatized adults to hang out. Not half an hour ago, she blended a goblin to death in her kitchen; strangers showing up on her doorstep wouldn't be the _tenth_ weirdest thing to happen to her today.

It's only when she registers the three panicked faces before her that she realizes: oh. _Shit_.

From his perch on the ottoman, not-Blinky gives the room an insouciant pout. "Is someone going to answer that?"

"Hold on just a second," Ophelia says. "In case we've all forgotten, there's a _troll_ in the living room—"

"I take exception to that."

Barbara looks to him, and then back to Ophelia. "Anyone who's come this far will have already noticed we're inside," she points out. "If we just ignore them, that'll be even more suspicious—"

"But what about _him_?" Nancy looks pointedly across the room, where their resident security risk is looking extremely supernatural and supremely unperturbed.

"What _about_ me?"

Barbara ducks her head into the foyer. Whoever it is, they're still standing there, shifting their weight from side to side like they have the time and patience to wait. The slowly-worsening tension is already verging on awkward; if they don't answer soon, it could verge into curiosity, or worse, misplaced concern. The last thing they need—with a _troll,_ in her _house_—is a 911 dispatch.

Right. Okay. Time to bullshit.

"Look, the most important thing is that they don't see you." She turns to Ophelia. "I'll go try to stall. I'm the homeowner, I'll probably be able to come up with something. Just—get him out of sight!"

Ophelia nods, and together with Javier, dutifully starts to shepherd not-Blinky into the dining room.

_Okay, Barb. You can do this_. She lays her hand on the doorknob, and takes a deep breath. _Just pretend everything is normal. This is a normal house, full of normal people, doing normal things. It's just a normal evening, on a totally normal day_.

But when she pulls the door open—

"Barbara," he says. Like a prayer, like a dream. Like he's just seen a ghost.

This isn't the first time she's seen him since—_since_. The last time he'd shown up on her doorstep, she'd slammed the door on him. But that had been—_before_, when she'd thought they'd only been going through a breakup. And this time—

"Who is it?" Nancy's stage whisper startles her out of her fog, and she whips around. Just inside, the older woman shoots her a look of grandmotherly concern.

"Could—could you give me just one second?" She hopes her plastered-on smile doesn't look as brittle as it feels. She'd rather this not be a whole thing, if she can avoid it. "_Walter_ and I've just gotta have a little chat."

Without waiting for an answer, she slips through the door and tugs it closed behind her.

For a few silent, breathless moments, all they can do is look at each other. Then:

"What," she says, "the _fuck,_ Walt."

"Barbara." His eyes are so wide, and so _green_, and he just keeps blinking, like he can't believe she's really there. She's furious with him. She _missed_ him. "I—I know what you must be thinking—"

"Don't fucking tell me what I'm thinking. I want to know what _you're_ thinking." The anger in her voice is almost incandescent, and she has to remind herself: they're not without an audience for this. "I _remember_, Walt. I remember—with you, with that, that monster—you brought an undead assassin into my _home_. You tied my life to yours, and I almost _died_!"

"A fact for which I can't apologize enough." He raises his hands, as if to emphasize. As if she needed his acknowledgment. "I know I—it was misguided, and a mistake. Believe me, I know."

She crosses her arms. She's not going to dignify that with a response.

"I know—I _do_ know what you must think of me," he says. He sounds so sincere, so vulnerable; noticing it only makes her feel worse. "I know it's the eleventh hour. But Jim—he must be putting the pieces together by now. I can help him, Barbara—"

_—the memory comes over her like a wave, like sleep: eyes like embers in the gloom of her basement; cold, sure hands on touch-warm metal; a collar of knives, glinting in the dark—_

_What _are_ you?_ _Someone who can help your son._

The mention of Jim takes her off-guard. "Jim's not here. He and his friends are—out." She narrows her eyes. "Don't you think you've helped enough?"

He casts another anxious glance into the trees, almost like he expects someone to be listening. And for the first time since she's met him, she thinks: he's _scared._

"I don't know how to tell you any more clearly that I'm coming to you as a _suppliant,_" he blurts out. "I swear, I'm not trying to deceive you. Something is coming that _none_ of us are prepared for. But I—I can be useful. I have—skills, skills that could keep you safe. "

The thought gives her pause. _A suppliant_—she's heard the term before, although she's not sure where. It's an old word, the weight of it heavy and unfamiliar on her tongue. She doesn't exactly trust it, but—she remembers Jim telling her about a promise he made, when she was in Trollmarket. To protect someone most people wouldn't think worth protecting.

At the time, she'd been so proud of him. And she is. She still is. But.

She fixes him with a hard look. "I don't know what you want from me, Walt." The words come out sounding almost as tired as she feels. "Like I said—Jim's not here. I'm not sure what exactly you think I can do—"

"The Skullcrusher doesn't know I'm alive," he says. "I just need—cover, somewhere to go to ground." He looks at her, pleadingly. "If Jim's gone somewhere, the least I can do is keep watch while he's gone."

As much as she wants to rolls her eyes, she manages to resist. Part of her can't believe she's even entertaining this. Invoking sacred hospitality on her feels like a cheap trick, even as it's one she realizes he must take very seriously—even as it's one, begrudgingly, that she takes seriously, too.

But then, she thinks of Jim, and _that night_, a look on his face that she can only just remember—

She thinks again of the kind of person she wants Jim to want to be. And then, thorns and all: her heart is too _full_.

"Alright. Alright, _fine_." She prays, secret and silent, that she won't regret this. They've already got a full house—one more isn't going to make things any worse.

She turns back to the door, and swings it open. When he hesitates, like he can't believe this is actually happening, she just waves him in. "Come on. Don't make it weird."

* * *

At least he's still a natural charmer.

He becomes the center of attention as soon as he crosses the threshold. Ophelia nearly pounces on him, firing off a litany of questions: where had he been, had he known about trolls, why was he here. She's still surprised to see how quick he turns it on, easy as flicking a switch. The hesitation, the skittishness from their conversation on the porch evaporates like mist, and then he's sitting there on her couch, eating cookies, smug and giggly and slightly manic like he didn't invite an _undead_ _assassin_ into her _home_, like he hasn't been machinating for the return of an omnicidal_ tyrant_ for longer than she's been _alive_, like anything other than Jim's good opinion of her is keeping her from throwing him to the_ fucking _wolves—

He's in the middle of the story about how he almost _stabbed Jim_ when she thinks: this would be a great excuse for her to get out of the room. She picks up the empty dishes scattered on the coffee table, and takes his empty plate, frosty as she can. Their eyes meet, and the mask cracks, just for a second; at least, she figures, he has the decency to look contrite.

Javier has been particularly enjoying Walt's storytelling—she's been trying not to listen, but she knows he's left out some of the more scandalous, i.e. personal, details—not to mention, she thinks, no longer being the only human-shaped man in the house. Predictably, he comes to Walt's defense. "How did you let this one go, Barbara?"

"He tried to kill my son," she deadpans. The room goes quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

She's about to stalk off back to the kitchen, plates and all, when her phone buzzes from her pocket. She spends half a second wondering who on _earth_ is texting her at this hour before she sees who it's from, and nearly drops the dishes where she stands.

"Oh—I got a text!"

The entire room lets out a breath. The communal relief is almost tangible.

"Well?" Ophelia looks expectant. "What does it say?"

"Have they tried the chorizo?"

"We're okay," she reads. "On our way to Merlin's tomb." Her voice wavers—she can hardly believe how relieved she is, how happy she is to hear it. Then, her eyes scan over the rest of the message. "We'll let you know if we...make it out alive. Winking smiley face."

Ophelia's eyes go wide, and she gives a strained laugh. "That's—that's a _joke_, right?"

Barbara has no idea how she's supposed to answer that, so: she takes a deep breath. "Why don't I get us some more snacks?"

* * *

For about twenty minutes, everyone manages to chill out in her living room, picking at microwave popcorn and making more inane small talk and pretending everything is fine. Then, after about the fiftieth instance of checking her phone, Ophelia finally cracks, and the fragile illusion of normalcy goes with her.

Barbara thinks she can understand. Really. She'd just gone through this whole cycle earlier in the afternoon: denial, anger, bargaining. She's not about to police how the others process this. And she can empathize, too, with the worry Ophelia has for Claire; after all, it's not like the commentary from the peanut gallery had exactly helped things. ("Maybe the man-eating troll king ate your children's hands," thanks not-Blinky, what the _fuck_.) But with Nancy on the verge of hysterics—

They're all adults. She just. Needs a moment, is all.

She slips into the kitchen, thanking every power in the universe the shutter is already closed. Hospitality—or muscle memory—takes over, and she tosses another bag of popcorn into the microwave, almost on autopilot. She barely registers how hot it is as she pours it into the bowl, instead concentrating on the feeling of it crunching between her teeth as she tries, miserably, to find her feet.

A few moments' rest against the countertop. That's all she needs. (Maybe if she keeps telling herself that, it'll end up true.) She pulls off her glasses, wondering if that'll do anything to stop the building pressure behind her eyes.

Then, since just because she's a doctor doesn't mean she has any sense, she pulls out her phone, too.

"Nothing," she mutters. About what she'd expected, but still—it aches.

As she's flicking up through her earlier messages to Jim, willing a new one to appear, the kitchen door creaks. She resigns herself to a conversation she realizes will be uninvited, uncomfortable, and—hopefully—brief.

"Barbara?"

She doesn't flinch at the sound of his voice, so she's already vaguely impressed. When she speaks, she tries to keep her voice _level_ and _professional_ and, in her humble opinion, only mostly fails. "You're the last person I want to talk to."

Her temper's made worse by the lack of news, she knows. Just as she knows that that's no excuse. But she's still feeling—a little fraught, given, well. Everything. So she thinks blunt honesty can be excused, just like she can be forgiven for turning back to her bowl of popcorn.

"You're doing an excellent job of maintaining calm." Walt's voice is so pleasant, so _normal_, and it just brings her back to that date in their kitchen, how she'd fallen like a sucker for all his stupid charming banter about coffee and cake and his _friends_. How she'd actually thought he'd been serious, about any of it, like an _idiot_. "If anyone has the capacity to survive the unknown, it's Jim."

She tries not to shoot him a dirty look. Part of her wants to snap: she doesn't need his validation. She _knows_ she's competent; she's a licensed attending physician at a major hospital. Her son is some mystical fucking troll knight, and she's handling it—well, she's _handling_ it, is the point. She's still—_angry_ feels like too small a word, though she also thinks there are plenty of small words she could use in describing what she feels towards him.

But—as much as it galls—from the only person in the house who looks like he's in the same _county_ as calm, his reassurance is more bolstering than she wants to admit. She takes a vindictive bite of popcorn, trying not to wince when she hits a kernel.

Then, Javier bursts through the kitchen door.

"Code Red! Code Red!"

Walt stiffens. "What is it?"

Javier's eyes dart over to her. "It's the police."

Which, aw. _Fantastic._

She takes a deep breath, and tries to roll some of the tension out of her shoulders. She's got the feeling this already-long evening is about to get a whole lot longer.

* * *

The next time they're alone together, they're in her kitchen again. This time, though, instead of picking at slightly-burnt microwave popcorn and trying to evade awkward conversation with her ex, she's trying to keep her hands from shaking too noticeably against the tile countertop.

There is an unconscious detective on her living room couch. Nancy and Javier are currently watching over him, while not-Blinky—the entire reason they're in this mess—just lounges, unbothered and unrepentant as a cat. They've at least learned their lesson from last time, and drawn the ground-floor curtains. Ophelia, meanwhile, is camped out at her dining room table, scribbling like a freshman with a deadline at her insane, brilliant, impossible plan.

Barbara wants to take back every remotely uncharitable thought she's ever had about the woman, to lay every resource she has at her disposal. But when she'd offered, Ophelia, surprisingly cheerful, had just waved her off.

"I double majored in English, back in the day," she explains. For the woman who not an hour ago had just about called the mayor over the secret troll world beneath their feet, she looks entirely too excited about staging a last-minute cover-up. "Look, I know it sounds crazy—but if we can just make it seem so off the wall, so _absolutely_ over the top—Nancy was right. We don't need to convince him he didn't see anything; just that he didn't see what he _thinks_ he did."

Still—the thought of lying so brazenly, to a _cop_, makes Barbara nervous.

"He's a detective," she says, folding her arms. "His whole job is putting two and two together. Aren't you worried he's going to...?"

Ophelia gives her a sneaky grin. "Barb, please. Ike's a nice guy, but I'm a politician." She twirls her pen around her finger. "He might be a detective, but _my_ job is knowing how to finesse law enforcement. Even before they get concussed."

Point taken. So. Apparently, they're putting on a play.

And, evidently, she's been recruited to give their leading man a pep talk.

"You know, I wouldn't have taken you for an aspiring thespian."

Walt's voice is just as warm as she remembers, but the nervous edge in it is new. That she put it there is less appealing than she would've imagined, not long earlier.

"Look, Walt..." She surprises herself, with how apologetic she sounds. She's still mad at him—still thinks she might never not be—but it's not like this plan is anyone's first choice. "I know this is asking a lot. But we don't have much in the way of practical effects, here."

And she's _not_ happy about this. She knows this isn't her secret to offer, and it needles, on principle, to be asking it so bluntly, let alone of someone who's technically a guest. Even for a favor she knows she's owed. But she's already broken the masquerade once tonight, and Ophelia's quick thinking is the best they have.

"Suppose it does work," Walt says. He does not sound terribly confident. "Suppose we manage to convince him that it's all—stage makeup, smoke and mirrors."

"Okay."

"Suppose we _do_ all of that. And then—" He gestures vaguely, more at nothing than anything. She doesn't think she's supposed to notice the way his hands have balled into fists. "You've only ever seen me in the dark. Revealing myself in full light, in front of law enforcement—"

"Walt, he's concussed." Nancy'd hit him pretty hard. Hence the vigil she and Javier are keeping in the living room. "He might not even remember what he sees later on."

"What about Ophelia? She's on the town council."

"She's Claire's mom," Barbara says. "She's—she was here earlier. She knows."

"She knows about _trolls_, Barbara. I doubt Blinkous explained about—" He huffs, and looks away. "There are differences you can't explain as 'makeup,' in any event," he says, still unconvinced. "I'm—_taller_, for one thing.'"

And oh, if _that_ isn't a new and exciting thought—not helped by the half-flustered tinge of pink over his cheeks as he says it—but. _Focus, Barb_.

"Call it a trick of perspective," she offers. "Come on, Walt. They might not know about you, but they know about—Jim. About this world. Aside from not-Blinky—who got us into this mess in the first place—you're the only one who can do this."

He levels her an appraising look. She realizes, suddenly, that he's standing absolutely still.

"Most humans, you know, wouldn't ask a repeat performance of this particular trick." His voice is quiet, almost wry. In the relative quiet of the kitchen, his eyes are—incredibly, _stupidly_ green. "Especially considering how it went over the last time."

The words are all culpatory and self-sharp, like he's—blaming himself. And—look, it's not that he doesn't have plenty to blame himself _for_, she knows that. She knows. She _knows_.

But she wants to tell him: _I'm not most humans_.

Part of her thinks she shouldn't be so surprised at how openly he says it. At how unambiguously he draws that line. But dreams and half-memories or no—knowing he isn't human has never felt _real_ the way it does on hearing him say it now, soft and casual and almost-confessional as he leans against her countertop.

_I'm not most humans. And—that's not why I'm mad at you, you colossal fucking idiot_.

And if he's really here to help—

"I don't want you to pretend to be something you aren't," she says, startling herself with the quiet truth of the realization. "Not—not if you're serious, about why you came back."

_Not if you meant it_, she doesn't say, in the sudden stillness that hangs between them_. Not to me._

After a moment that seems to last forever, he stands a little straighter.

"I meant what I told you," he says. "I want to help. But this is—I don't know how to explain it to you." He looks away. Then, very softly: "I _knew_ these people, once."

And then, suddenly, it clicks.

"You think they'll—that they'll make a whole thing about it. About you being—" She can't bring herself to say it, even now. She doesn't want to misstep, not about this. "Like what happened when we were in the crystal city."

He nearly rolls his eyes, but—and she thinks this is important, somehow—he doesn't deny it.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she says, "that maybe people—_human_ people—aren't the same as trolls?"

To her surprise, he actually laughs at that, if it at least sounds more _surprised_ than _disbelieving_. "I see where Jim must get his optimistic convictions."

She almost snorts. "I _saw_ you, on the couch earlier. These people are your _friends_."

"And how long do you think that will last?" He shoots her another brief, indirect glance, another flash of green in the warm light of her kitchen. "There's a reason we keep ourselves hidden from humans, Barbara—"

"And look where that hiding has gotten us!"

The words come out a little more hysterical than she'd aimed for, but—despite herself, she's not expecting him to flinch.

"Look," she says, more gently. "We're in this together, now. _All_ of us, human or otherwise." She looks up to him, overcome by a rush of something suddenly, inexplicably fierce. "And if anyone has a problem with you—they can get in line."

For a moment they just stand there, suspended in the thick, tense silence of the kitchen. His expression as he looks at her is almost transparent, but she can't quite parse it.

Then, he lets out a sigh she hadn't noticed him holding.

"Well." His expression is same one of easy confidence he'd been wearing earlier, though it doesn't quite carry over to his voice. But—he still sounds different, somehow. "I suppose I did promise to make myself useful, after all."

Relief floods over her, almost a physical sensation. Relief, and—to her surprise—genuine gratitude.

"Walt, I—thank you." His eyes go wide, but she's not sure what else she can say. "I mean it," she says. "It doesn't have to be perfect—it just has to _work_."

He clears his throat. "I'm no Councilwoman Nuñez, but I _have_ been dissembling to law enforcement since before Magna Carta." His good cheer is forced, but—still, bizarrely, it brings a cautious smile to her face. "As long as you're not expecting Shakespeare..."

* * *

Despite her worst misgivings. Despite the many, _many_ ways this could go wrong. In the end, they might just actually manage to pull it off.

Their little play—and that's a generous description—is hammy and ridiculous, and she's not entirely sure what else she'd expected. Honestly? She wonders where Ophelia's been hiding it: ever since Barbara's known them, her husband has always been the goof of the two. Councilwoman Nuñez is a canny, candid politician, but Barbara would never have expected that Ophelia was so resourceful, able to work so much out of Walt's sparest of comments and such corny dialogue.

Better still, Detective Scott takes it in hook, line, and sinker. Every time she glances over to him, he's on the edge of his seat.

She won't lie: when Walt stalks "onstage," it takes a moment for the full effect to really sink in. (He really wasn't kidding about his height. When he comes to a stop, just an arm's length from her, and she has to tilt her head to meet his eyes—she has to lock her knees to keep from swooning.) She knows, logically, that she's seen him like this before—a fact he'd reminded her of not one room over, not too long ago. It still almost feels like she's seeing him for the first time.

She doesn't want to stare. She knows she _can't_ know how this must feel to him, baring a face he's kept secret from her world for time she can't imagine. But. Well.

He might look different. _Very_ different. But—maybe not _bad_ different.

Part of her says: maybe she'd like to look at him like this more often.

Of course he delivers all of Ophelia's corny lines with electric, confident ease. Even the really half-baked ones—"Boolar" _can't_ be a real name, not even for trolls—sound almost reasonable, coming from him. Her own strategy is more along the lines of _act badly enough and Ike will forget how implausible this whole thing is_, and she's under no illusions as to who's doing the majority of the convincing between them. But Walt takes to the whole thing with enthusiasm, and somehow, even through her own stilted delivery, and plot holes visible from space, they fall into a pattern of fluid give-and-take.

She does seem to take him by surprise with the broom. She remembers—she _thinks_ she remembers the sight of little grey knives, sure in his hands, though she's not sure now if they're from a dream or a real memory. She still doesn't remember much, if anything, about what he is, though her mind suggests (in others' voices) the words _traitor_ and _impure_ and _spy_. But she remembers those knives, and the thought that he must know how to use them. At least enough to block a plastic broom handle.

So when he lets her gently pummel him, instead—in front of their friends—well.

Part of her doesn't want her anger to dim. This isn't an apology; part of her wants to burn, to hold this grudge until the end of time. He'd put Jim in danger. He might not have hurt her intentionally, but she'd still almost _died_.

And she knows this. She _does_. But.

He'd come back, despite everything. And he's here, now. He'd offered up a close-held personal secret to help them—to help her—_now._

_The key_, her mind supplies, half-memory and half-dream, _is the contrast. Bitter and sweet._

She looks down to the man lying before her on the floor, wearing the face of the nightmare-that-wasn't, and offers him her hand.

* * *

After—after. Once Ophelia and Javier head home, and Nancy takes not-Blinky with her back across the court. With the kids still gone, it's just the two of them left in her house.

It's only mildly awkward, which is the weirdest part of it. She guesses it's not the worst circumstances he's seen her house in. And, in the end—now that she knows what's out there, she's secretly kind of relieved not to have to be alone. Not that she would tell him that, but—it's an odd kind of parallel to gratitude, one she's willing, for the moment, to just let exist.

She's standing over the stove, waiting for her water to boil, when she hears him walking into the kitchen. Funny, she thinks, how they keep running into each other here.

"Well." He looks—fidgety. It makes him look younger, if that even means anything for someone like him. "That didn't go terribly."

She's a little surprised at how calm she feels, with him this close. At how steadying his presence is, after—everything. Tonight, and earlier. He's kept his human face ever since their scene earlier, and she wonders—rudely, she worries—if he's doing it for her. She hopes not. It isn't something she wants to question too closely.

"Amateur community theater saves the day," she says. She's trying for _light_, and mostly manages _exhausted_. "Who'd've thought?"

He actually laughs, again. She wonders if he feels as delirious and wound up as she does, simultaneously boneless and coiled like a spring. Tension threatening to snap, just under her skin.

"I do appreciate what you did," she insists, anyway. "Earlier, with the acting. With the—you know."

To her surprise, he turns almost bashful. "It's nothing, really. For all I dragged my feet—"

"I mean it." She turns to look at him. "I—I told you, it feels like it wasn't my place to have asked. But after—look, you probably saved our bacon back there. I don't know how else we could've fooled Ike, not after he'd seen...well. Not-Blinky."

"Dictatious?"

She's not sure how he's saying it with a straight face, because she sure doesn't hear it with one. "_Really_?"

"We're—old acquaintances." Further explanation is not forthcoming. "Believe me, of the two, Blinkous—_Blinky_ is by far the more tolerable brother."

She wonders what he must mean by "acquaintance." If he really used to be a spy—she doesn't think she knows that, not for certain—part of her thinks she might not want to find out.

Then she realizes: she did, technically, wail on him a little with the broom. She could probably do with offering him a little more hospitality. So:

"Can I make you some tea?"

He hides his surprise fairly well, considering, but she doesn't miss the way he almost freezes. "I don't want to impose—"

"I'm offering." She pulls the kettle off the burner, and pushes the little box of teabags over to him while she goes to get more water. "I've got basic black, basic green, and 'might as well be potpourri.' Help yourself. "

He doesn't say anything, but does as he's told without a fuss. She hands him a mug on her way back from the sink—_it's not rocket surgery_—and _definitely_ doesn't think about how their fingers brush, before setting the kettle back on the stove.

"I can't imagine how you've been doing in all this," he says, after a moment. "For what it's worth, I—you were the picture of grace under pressure. Earlier."

"Oh, please." The compliment brings with it an unexpected blush, and she tilts her head to hide the start of a smile tugging at her lips. "Half a dozen adults, only one of whom is concussed? I've definitely had worse at the hospital."

"It bears repeating." He sounds so proper, so _formal_, it almost makes her want to laugh. "You're a formidable woman, Doctor Lake."

On the surface, she recognizes the honorific for what it is. But at the same time: he hasn't called her that in months, even before losing her memory. After lying to law enforcement together, after the play, part of her had thought that maybe—that they'd had a rapport.

So, possibly against her better judgment, she thinks: maybe she should tell him.

"Hey, now." There: something easy and light, before her brain can catch up with her mouth. Half-tired, half-sincere; just a _smidge_ coquettish, out of a habit she can't quite bring herself to regret. "Only my patients call me _Doctor_."

The look on his face is almost worth it, until she realizes—she has _vastly_ overestimated how the teasing would land.

"Oh—I—of course." His eyes are so big, and he's looking anywhere but at her, and if she'd thought he was formal before now he sounds positively distant; he looks vaguely panicked, in a way that leaves a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. "How presumptuous of me. I should have realized—"

"_Walt_." Without thinking—after everything that's passed between them—she reaches out to touch his shoulder. "What I meant is—we're not strangers. We're not drinking tea together, in the middle of the night, waiting for a text from my son to prove he hasn't died after finding some legendary wizard, just for you to feel like you have to call me _Doctor_."

He just looks at her for a moment, like everything is suddenly too big and much, like reality's been moved just an inch or two out of place, and she thinks: she knows that expression. She knows that expression, because she's pretty sure it's the same one she's been wearing since earlier that afternoon.

Seeing it on someone else—even, maybe especially, on him—it's a funny feeling. One she wants, not quite subconsciously, to soothe.

The kettle whistles. She motions for his cup. Then, they're too busy fixing their tea—he takes his with two sugars, which surprises her, somehow—to say anything more substantial until a few minutes later, once they've relocated into her living room and settled on the couch.

"I wouldn't worry," he says, eventually. "About Jim. Your confidence in him is well placed."

She tries to take the reassurance as it's offered, but her hand goes tight around the handle of her mug. "It's not Jim that I don't trust. It's—everything else."

"Emrys tends not to be subtle with those he particularly favors." The words are dry and matter-of-fact, though his expression is not unkind. "And now that Jim's actually found him—given your son's track record, I'd wager he's no exception."

She still can't believe _medieval wizards_ are a thing she has to deal with, now. Given the presence of an expert, she can't help but be curious.

"What is he like? Emrys, Merlin—whoever he is." She wraps her hands around the sides of her cup and tries to soak up all the heat she can. "I mean, to be completely honest? I've read some terrible Arthurian romance novels. But I don't remember any of—_this_. "

"I probably know only about as much as you do." There's the edge of a laugh in his voice, but at least he seems sincere, even if she has trouble believing it. "We—that is, changelings have a detailed mythology on human magic users. At least certain ones. But after recent events, I'm starting to suspect it's really only that: mis-rememberings and half-truths."

"You seemed surprised," she says. "Earlier. When we got their text."

His raises an eyebrow. "You _weren't_?"

"I think I hit my limit for surprises sometime around getting my memories back."

He snorts, though he still can't quite escape looking a little guilty.

"I grew up hearing stories about the Tomb," he says, finally. "It always felt—mythical, a place you _know_, logically, must exist but that might as well be on the moon. Like somewhere in a fairy tale." His eyes drift, unreadably, towards the window. "To hear that Jim and his friends had actually found him...it's an odd feeling."

A question forms itself insistently in her mind—_changeling fairy tales?_—but again she decides she might not want to pry too deep. Not now, not after whatever weird détente they've reached. So she tucks it away, alongside _growing up?_ and _why knives?_ and _is that even your real name?_, and points her curiosity toward something else.

"Is that why you don't call him Merlin?" She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, not sure if this is an overstep. The evening's events have confused a lot of the boundaries in this relationship, she thinks, and it's a truce, despite everything, that she doesn't want to endanger.

"A long-held superstition, if you'll forgive me." He flashes her another wry half-smile, one that doesn't quite cover how he looks—again—almost shy. "Certain names—invite attention. Some of which is best left unsought."

Something twists in her stomach. That's _very_ reassuring.

He seems to realize though that this might not have been the best thing to say, and carefully rearranges his hands around the sides of his mug. "But—as I said. Jim is his champion, after all."

"Jim is _sixteen_. He shouldn't have to be anyone's 'champion.'" Neither should his friends. She bites her cheek, at the injustice of it. "_No one_ should be dragging _children_ into their stupid _war_."

At that his eyes turn soft and strange, like he wants to say something more. But he only hums. At least it sounds like agreement.

In the quiet of the house, an absurd, brave impulse comes over her.

"If I ask you something," she says. "Will you be honest with me?"

A flash of panic flits briefly through his eyes, but—to his credit, she has to admit—he just sits a little straighter. "I—of course."

"Gunmar. The Skullcrusher, whoever. You—you used to work for this guy, right."

A beat passes. But he nods.

"I want—I'd rather know." She bites her lip, trying to figure out how to word this. "How bad is this going to be?"

"Which part of it?"

"Whatever's going to happen _next_."

He lets out a soft exhale, one that belies the tension in his shoulders. "He's taken Trollmarket. He has the staff. Now, there's nothing stopping him from bringing the Eternal Night. To do that, he'll try to free—his patron." He hesitates, only for a moment. "The _Lady_."

He says the title carefully, deliberately, like he's forcing himself past some unknown discomfort. _Unwanted attention_, she thinks.

"I heard—Claire was talking about her, before you got here." She looks over to him. "She's—Morgana, like Morgan le Fay, right?"

The half-smile comes back, though it's shaky. "She's—well. Most of what you—humans—have received through the centuries has been, shall we say, edited for television. Whatever Gunmar has in mind, her plans are worse."

She looks into her tea and tries not to wince. "She's that bad, huh."

"Cruel. Inscrutable. Unfathomably powerful, even after centuries of imprisonment." He speaks like he knows from experience. Then, voice pitched carefully casual, he adds: "Of course, she's also the patron of changelings. Our _Lady Creator_, as she's fond of saying. So perhaps I'm not the most objective informant."

A chill runs down her spine, and she think_s_:_ ah. There it is._

Jim had practically told her as much, that much she _does_ remember. Spies and assassins, feared (and hated) by most, trusted by none. She remembers, too, her own thoughts on the matter: her memories, just after what she'd thought was a breakup, are still a little fuzzy, but_ two-faced son of a bitch_ particularly stands out.

But another part of her thinks: that's not fair. She hadn't asked this; he'd offered it freely, like a gift, even knowing—she's certain—what her reaction would be. Whatever she remembers being said in Trollmarket, it's not—those aren't prejudices she wants to repeat. The night she lost her memory, he'd been on Jim's side. She _remembers_. And if he's saying what she thinks he is—it's not an excuse, she knows, she _knows_.

But. Well. What can she say? She's got a soft spot for children wronged by their parents.

She takes a long drink of tea. The night's starting to catch up with her, and she's not sure if she wants to scream or if she wants to fall into bed and sleep for weeks.

(That's...not entirely true. She's been stuck in a nightmare since early that afternoon; she wants to _wake up_. But a flash of maybe-memory—_I'm done running from my problems_—gives her pause. After everything that's happened—maybe she's exhausted, sure. But not extinguished. Like sleeping coals, waiting to be stoked.)

Walt notices her introspection, of course, because unexpected vulnerability or no he's still _Walt_. He sets his mug lightly onto the table.

"But—she was sealed away once." The optimism in his voice sounds artificial, strained, and—she realizes, with another start, he must be putting it there for _her_. She's surprised to realize how grateful she is; it's an unsought kindness, given unasked. "And, after all, there's never been a human Trollhunter."

She's not sure that's much comfort when said Trollhunter is her _son_. But she tries to take the reassurance in the spirit it was intended. So:

"I—thank you, Walt." She holds tight to her mug, lukewarm and overbrewed as it is. "I mean, all of this sounds like an unqualified fucking mess. But I'd—I'd rather know."

His expression does something soft and awful, and for a brief, insane moment, all she can think is: _she'd dreamt of that face_.

"I know I'm not Jim's first choice." He looks up to her, features hastily schooled into something serious and direct. "He's already said as much, the last time we spoke. But for what's coming, he'll need all the help he can get—"

She waves a tired hand. "That's not—this isn't some mercenary arrangement." She wonders if he knows, for all his spycraft, just how much Jim used to admire him. "Isn't that the whole point of sacred hospitality? You're my _guest_. I told you. After earlier—we're in this together, now. "

He still looks—wary. Like he doesn't completely believe this isn't a trap.

"You remember what happened," he says. "You told me yourself. Most people wouldn't drop that so easily."

Most people, most people. And who's saying she _dropped_ it?

But again: she thinks of Jim, and his promise.

"I'm just saying." She sets her mug down, just next to his. "You don't go through the trouble of putting on a terrible, last-minute play—written with the _express_ intent of misleading police—without getting a little ride or die for your co-stars."

His squawk of a laugh, genuine and unexpected, is a surprisingly good sound. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it—how much she'd missed this stupid, casual companionship.

After that they drift into more tired, unmemorable conversation. Nothing too serious: she thinks he's being particularly conscientious, sticking to safe topics like the hospital (busy, as usual) and the weather (it's California) and tea (though she suspects this is a bit of a softball). The best way to get goblin out of the floorboards, because of _course_ that's a thing he 1.) knows and 2.) has opinions about. For a quick, dreamlike moment—she can almost imagine what things would be like if things had never changed between them. If that night had never happened.

Still. Bland and uncontentious the conversation might be, but it's a surprisingly effective distraction. The next time she looks at the clock, she almost starts.

They'd been talking for—quite a while. She doesn't exactly know what to think about it.

Instead of looking at it too closely, she pulls herself up from the couch, and he follows suit. But when she makes to head for the kitchen, he places a tentative hand on her shoulder.

"Let me take first watch," he offers. He collects her mostly-empty mug in one quick, smooth motion. "You've had a long day."

She wants to say: you have _no_ idea_._ _You have _no_ idea_, _and half of it—most of it—is your fault_. She almost wants to protest, however weakly; to raise her hackles, to keep up the thorns she'd cultivated in the absence of memory. Even as part of her wants nothing more than to relax into the touch of his hand; to throw her arms around him and tear that wall out by its roots.

Instead, she gives a soft sigh. "I want to be here when the kids get back."

(She does not say: she doesn't think she could ever forgive herself if they didn't. She might be having to come to terms with being a—a _mundane_, but nobody ever said she'd have to take it easily. In the absence of any handy supernatural abilities she sure as hell can sit up mad about it—)

"At least rest, then." He sounds so genuine, so earnest. "I can wake you when they return."

"Let me stay down here." She's not—_protesting_, she thinks. Just laying out a reasonable objection. "In case—just in case you need a hand."

"I should be keeping an eye on the news. With the staff in Gunmar's hands..."

She gives him a tired laugh. For maybe the first time that evening, it might even be something approaching real.

"Come on, Walt," she says, feeling absolutely beat. "I went to med school. I've slept through worse."

So that's how she ends the evening curled up under a spare comforter on her couch, an ancient troll spysassin watching the boring late-night human news not an arm's length away. When the world starts catching up to her, and everything goes warm and dark and fuzzy around the edges, she tells herself: she's just resting her eyes. It's a good thing, she thinks softly, she's got a perfect shoulder-height cushion to rest on.

* * *

A few hours later, halfway through a dream she's already forgetting, she jolts awake to the sudden sound of footfalls coming up the hallway. She practically leaps off the couch, panic and memory supplying the goblins and whatever other monsters even if her eyes aren't, until her mind catches up—

Walt's holding her back, very carefully, from swinging at her son.

When she sees Jim, looking lost and tired and _small _in a perfectly-tailored suit of magic armor, she throws her arms around him, and thinks she's never going to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **did you know** that 1.) detective scott has a canon first name and 2.) that apparently strickler was in the lakes' house before the kids left to find merlin? because **i sure didn't**! in a similar vein: i'm just taking not-enrique's presence at the very beginning of "the oath" as an animation error, because i completely forgot about him (in my defense: he doesn't exactly seem plot-critical). don't worry about it. this is now the world's most mundane au. it's fine. we're fine.


	3. knights errant / night errands

The following morning, she wakes up just before sunrise. Because the world is unjust, it's even a good half hour or more before her alarm. Memories of the previous day come back to her in a crushing wave—the smell of paint in the basement, the chirp of a text message, a stone hand in hers—and she takes a series of deep breaths before even thinking about getting out of bed. She still can't quite believe this isn't all a dream.

Jim is—he's something called a _Trollhunter_. He wears a suit of magic armor and fights monsters. (He's only _sixteen_.) Monsters live under the city, except when they don't. Some of them are—normal. She even used to date one.

She rubs her eyes wearily. She's not _nearly_ caffeinated enough for this.

She pulls herself out of bed in a way best described as _begrudging_. As she does, she notices a small square of paper slid under her door. It looks put there on purpose; when she slips over to pick it up, she's greeted with a message written in a small, precise handwriting she doesn't recognize.

_emrys on watch (in basement) (at time of writing). a few errands to run—will return asap. s._

She stares at the words for a few moments, trying to will them to cohere into a meaningful whole. It takes her a couple re-reads to remember who "Emrys" is, and, by extension, where she's heard that name before. The realization—that Walt left this, for her, that this is _his_ handwriting—wakes her up, just a bit. Holding the note with this new knowledge feels like something small and intimate, an abstract touch of hand to hand.

She sits with it, just for a moment. Then, she tucks the square of paper gently into her dresser, and decides: well. It's not like the immediate future is getting any _less_ weird. She might as well face it with pants on.

* * *

When she comes down the stairs a few minutes later, she's not entirely surprised to see the kids are all already absorbed making breakfast. Then, it hits her: the kids are making breakfast. They're making breakfast—which means they're home—meaning _Jim's_ home—

"Mom!"

She's hardly made it to the dining room when she's enveloped in a warm, bone-tight hug, followed by tired _good morning_s from Claire and Toby. Jim had been so distant, before, so intent on shutting himself off; now—now that she knows what secret he was protecting, now that she's made her stand beside him, ready to share the weight of carrying it—the return of his affection is so warm and tender, she can't help but bask.

"Hey there, kiddo." She's very proud of how her voice doesn't shake. "Anything I can help with?"

"Nah. Just—making some omelettes." Jim pulls away slowly, almost bashfully; tired as he had been last night, she can tell he hasn't gotten much sleep. "D'you wanna eat down here? Or—I could bring it up to your room, if you want."

"Down here is fine. As long as Toby doesn't mind sharing the breakfast bar. Just let me get some coffee going—"

"Already on it." Claire's already pouring her a mug, which Barbara takes like it's the elixir of life. "We were just trying to figure out if you wanted us to wake you, but Jim was saying—"

The trio drift into a rhythm of soft conversation, and it's—it's good to hear, even if she's too tired to contribute much more than tired laughter and the occasional nod. The atmosphere in her kitchen is hard to describe: when they'd gotten back, the kids had been—not cagey, _exhausted_, but she knows whatever version of events they gave her is only the broad strokes. Secret pathways; crystal caverns; evil troll god-king; immortal wizard. Whatever happened last night, they're taking it in stride—but she can't help but wonder at what they're not saying.

And she can tell there's _something_. She might not always get him to talk, but she's always been able to tell when Jim's trying to hide things from her. But the way his eyes won't quite meet hers, the way he's just a _little_ too quick to smile—this isn't something she wants to pry at, not now, not when she's still overflowing with gratitude at getting him back at all.

The kids are just putting the finishing touches on breakfast—Toby's already setting up their seats in the living room—and the morning sun is just starting to really come through the windows when she hears the _click_ of a key. Then, before she can think, Walt's slipping in through the back door, easy and familiar as if he'd only just stepped out.

The entire kitchen rounds on him, and he freezes like a statue. When she sees how white Jim's knuckles are around the handle of his chef's knife, Barbara realizes: she must be the only one who knew, or even thought, he was coming back.

"I did leave a note," he says, voice carefully neutral. The alarmed look he shoots her, though, is anything but.

_Oh, shit._ "He did!" she says. "Oh, he did, Jim, I wasn't thinking. I should have said something—I'm sorry, kiddo. It was a long night."

A tiny measure of tension relaxes out of the room. Not _much_, but—enough to bring back some room to breathe.

"You're _back_," Jim says, more evenly than he must feel. The knife relaxes, gradually, back down to the cutting board. "I didn't realize you were...not bailing on us."

"Surely I'm still entitled to a few surprises, young Atlas." Walt says it coolly, like she thinks he must say everything, but he looks unusually rumpled. Between how late the kids had gotten back, and how early he'd have had to leave the note, the kids aren't the only ones who can't have gotten much sleep. "Gunmar has been suspiciously quiet since recovering the Staff, and a little reconnaissance was hardly out of my way—"

"Wait a second." She's not anticipating the sudden flash of worry that comes over her at his words, but when it hits, it hits hard. "You said you had 'errands.' Were you out doing—_spy stuff_?"

"Er." He quails under her look. "That's—really a very generous description."

"You know," Jim says, "Blinky does have a phone." His voice is tight, but almost amused. "If you wanted to know what was happening at Trollmarket, you could've just texted him."

"Blinkous and I had—other matters to discuss." Walt says it evenly, but he looks so offended at the suggestion, despite her worry, it's all Barbara can do not to snort into her cup. "In any event, he's got far too much on his plate to be gathering intelligence. Even if he _was_ any good at it. I, on the other hand—"

"'Set a thief to catch a thief?'"

"See? You _have_ been paying attention."

Jim grumbles, of course, but doesn't say anything further, instead turning back to finishing his omelettes. As soon as they're plated up, he heads off into the living room with Claire, no doubt trying to preserve yet another unspoken, shaky truce.

Peace made for the moment—or at least the pretense of it, for which she's grateful—Walt comes to an awkward rest at the end of the counter. With Jim out of the kitchen, he looks—adrift.

Still. She's nothing if not a gracious host. She pats the seat beside her, and tries not to remember a dream that, even now, tastes of coffee and liquor.

"So." She fixes him with her best _I'm not mad, just disappointed_ look, honed to perfection on the whetstone of parenting a teenage boy. At least with Jim and his friends out of the room, she doesn't feel bad about needling him a little further. "_Errands_, huh?"

"I see you got my note." More dodging the question, but at least he has the decency to look vaguely sorry about it. "You look—rested."

_Flatterer_. The initial shock of concern is slowly starting to fade. He's clearly made it back safe and sound, at least for now, and—she's glad of it, really.

"I wish I felt it," she says, instead. "Relatedly: coffee?"

As he slides into the empty seat, he gives her a look of unselfconscious relief. "_Please_."

A lot of their interactions lately seem to hang on caffeinated beverages shared in her kitchen. She wonders how many times constitute a pattern.

"Here." She hands over the pitcher from the machine. "I swear I didn't make it. Milk and sugar?"

"I—this is just fine, thank you." He takes it gratefully. And, to be honest, kind of awkwardly—like she can see, just under the surface, just how much he hadn't expected to make it this far.

"So."

He ducks his head. "I really wasn't going out with the intent of getting into trouble—"

"So you _did_ get into trouble?"

"You know, I _am_—I _used_ to be very good at what I do." He sounds a little insulted, but in a way that's more self-conscious than truly offended. She doesn't miss the tinge of pink running over his cheeks as he says it. "I wasn't followed, if that's what you're worried about."

"I was just worried for you," she explains. "I was glad to see you'd left a note, but—I really did forget to tell the kids."

His features relax into that little half-smile. "You have a soft heart, my dear."

At that, it's her turn to blush. But—all things considered, it's not the worst thing she could be blushing for. The weird almost-playful whatever they've got going on here is—it's nice. Familiar. For a second, everything is almost peaceful, and—she wants to buy into that, to lean into the illusion of normal, even as she knows it's only that.

Then, without warning, the basement door jolts open, and—

"Oh, do excuse me." Merlin surveys the room, sporting an expression of supremely affected boredom as he strolls into her kitchen in full plate armor. "Am I interrupting?"

* * *

Meeting an actual wizard is—not what she'd expected. To be honest, at this point, she's not even sure what she was expecting. There's a _wizard_, in her _kitchen_; she watches him playing with the refrigerator door and almost wants to pat him on the shoulder, before she remembers he could probably turn her into a newt.

To be fair, everyone's acting a little googoo. Maybe it's just nerves, maybe it's just having a celebrity around, but she knows Jim's _hero worship_ look. The kids are eagerly chatting about magic and monsters and, again, _wizards_, and she's trying to leave them the space to have whatever conversation with him they need to have.

She's just helping Jim—as much as she can—with the rest of breakfast, when she can't help but overhear his little exchange with Walt.

It's—whatever. Obviously it rubs her the wrong way, but she just learned this world existed. She doesn't pretend to know the ins and outs of it yet, even if she knows what it looks like by her human standards. She also doesn't want to let on that she was, maybe, possibly, kind of eavesdropping. Plus, Walt is—well. An ancient spysassin, or whatever. He probably doesn't want—or need—her to fight his battles.

But she does have a soft heart. He hadn't been wrong about that.

It's still bothering her, later, once the kids have corralled Merlin somewhere in the garage. Walt's in the kitchen, nursing his coffee, and—she doesn't want to intrude. Just check in, is all.

Of course, it's not like she's gotten any better at subtlety over the past twenty-four hours. When she turns the corner from the dining room hallway, her mind blanks.

For lack of anything better to offer, all she can think to say is: "Hey."

He toasts her with his coffee, leaning cool and casual against her counter like everything is totally normal, but doesn't say anything. She wonders if she's intruding. But then, she realizes: she's—_worried_ about him, okay, she'd admit it. After—after last night, after the _play_, she thinks, it's completely normal to want to. Check in.

Still. She gets the feeling she's gonna need something to do with her hands. She walks over to the sink, and picks up a sponge.

"So." She's never exactly been good at hiding concern, and when she aims for _casual_, she thinks she mainly hits _obvious_. "Merlin, huh."

He hums, conspicuously disinterested. He seems suddenly engrossed in the contents of his mug.

"Who'd've thought a wizard would be so rude_."_

"Functionally immortal, nigh-omniscient." His voice is light, like this is just normal morning banter between normal people. "I imagine they don't see much demand for the social graces."

She bites her lip. That's no fucking excuse, she thinks, scrubbing irritably at a pan that looks like it was put in here clean. But apparently her agitation is obvious, because she hears the soft _clink_ of his cup coming to rest on the countertop.

"Barbara." The sound of her name in his voice is something so tender—so missed, so welcome, after everything that's happened, after everything between them—it's a bridge she wants desperately to keep open. "Please, don't work yourself up. It's nothing we're not used to."

"It's still—he didn't have to be such a _dick_," she says, dedicating every ounce of self-control to keep from sounding _pouty_. When she's done with it, this pan is going to fucking _gleam_.

He gives her a tight, small smile. "Some battles aren't worth fighting, my dear."

She drops the sponge, and shoots him a look. "You went spying this morning and now you're gonna pull 'discretion is the better part of valor' on me, _really_?"

That actually coaxes a laugh from him, though, soft and unmistakably genuine. For a moment, the resulting flush of triumph almost makes her forget her irritation with the wizard.

"It's not as if he had much of a reputation to salvage, at least with me," Walt explains, leaning back into the counter. "I've spent most of my life thinking of him as _the Adversary_. Jim's still in his good graces, which is what matters."

"What _matters _is—" She bites her tongue, and looks away. "It doesn't matter who he is. He should know better."

"Barbara. He's a _wizard_."

"So he should _super_ know better?"

He rolls his eyes, though his expression is almost fond. "He's hardly the only one."

"_Really_."

"You said last night that you remember Trollmarket."

"Yeah, well, I had a lot of stuff I was dealing with at the time—"

"Did you think the same of them then?"

"I remember a literal fucking _child_ had to keep a mob from murdering you." Her reflection glowers back at her from the bottom of the sink, and she realizes, suddenly, that she's balling her fists again. "Look, I didn't know—I still don't know anything about this. Your world. I admit that." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "But I know that's some bullshit, Walt."

The look he gives her is unreadable. But after only a moment, his eyes flick away, back out the window.

"As I said, it's nothing we're not used to." The half-smile resurfaces, just a flicker. In the fresh, almost-summer morning, his eyes are green as ever. "Lucky me, I suppose, to have an advocate like you."

And—on the surface—the form of the words sounds almost cold. Like something almost reminiscent of sarcasm, expertly wielded; like something he's used to raising between himself and an unsympathetic world she's seen only in glimpses.

But part of his voice is sincere. Hesitant, too—but there's something about the way he says it, voice measured and neutral but with just the barest hint of hope—it brings her a feeling of sudden, unexpected warmth.

Before she can say anything stupid, she turns her eyes back to the sink.

"Well." Her cheeks are very, very warm. "Not every day someone shows up on your doorstep and asks for—suppliantship, after all."

He just looks at her, something soft and almost sad in his eyes. Then he looks at the sink, and his expression shifts.

"Speaking of which," he says. "At least let me help you with the dishes."

"Oh—_Walt_." This is. The opposite of what she wanted to happen. "Please. I'm a grown woman—"

But he's already shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "And as I told you last night: as long as I'm here, I intend to be useful."

* * *

Later—once the resident wizard's fucked back off to whatever wizard bullshit he's pulling in her garage—the kids are gathered in the dining room, puzzling over the list he'd left them.

"A fetch quest from _Merlin_." Toby gives the list a skeptical look. "I'm not sure if I should be psyched or...the opposite."

The list is—not all that long, actually. If she's understanding it right, though she's not sure she is. The handwriting is strange; some letters she can recognize (she thinks), but mostly, it reminds her of the writing in _The Lord of the Rings_, all full bowls and little dots and flowing, cursive swashes. Inscribed on a scrap of mundane lined paper, it almost looks—surreal, out of place. Like she still can't quite believe the past twenty-four hours actually happened.

From the seat beside Toby, Claire frowns. "We'd have a better idea if we could actually read it. I've looked at tons of manuscripts in Blinky's library, but I've never seen handwriting like this before—"

"Not to worry, Miss Nuñez." Walt, who had been carefully aloof while Merlin was expounding earlier, walks in from where he'd been leaning against the hallway arch. "If you'll allow me?"

Jim looks suspicious, but slides the paper over without a fuss.

"How am I _not_ surprised you know how to read this."

"Paleography is but one of the historian's many skills." Walt peers at the list, and makes a face. "Though—I'll admit, it's been a while since I had to parse sixth-century cursive."

This sets off a shock through the kids' faces, which they make no effort to hide. Walt's only reaction, though, is to roll his eyes, followed by an almost-exasperated "I'm not _that _old," before pulling out a chair.

"I expect you'll want to delegate the majority of this list." He produces a fancy-looking fountain pen from his jacket pocket, and starts transcribing a list of his own, neat and legible alongside Merlin's hand. "Most of these items are rather specialized, if not outright difficult to find."

She's reading along with him as he translates, and that's certainly one way of putting it. 'Lightning in a bottle?' The femur of a—wait, _what_? She _can't_ be reading that right—

Claire's watching the list, too. "We can use my shadowstaff to get into a lot of places we normally couldn't," she says, "but after what happened—I don't know if we should push our luck. Is there anything on the list we can get around Arcadia?"

"Some of them, certainly. The antramonstrum shell, for one—"

Toby groans. "Not one of those things, _again_."

"They've got shells? Wait—Tobes, that crystal."

Walt rewards Jim's guess with a smile. "Luckily for you, circumstances have changed somewhat since the last time you broke into my office." He caps the pen and offers it to Jim, and the boys' eyes go wide. "Here. You'll need this."

"Your keypen?" Jim's expression turns from thoughtful curiosity to something almost wary. "But I thought—that lock won't open for us, though."

"That particular restriction has been emended." When Jim levels him with a suspicious look, he just says: "While I was out, as I said, I—_conferred_ with Blinkous."

Toby shoots the pen a starry-eyed look. "And he jailbroke the key? Sweet."

"It was a joint venture." Walt's voice is all diplomacy, but—she could just about take a picture of his face. "I thought it might be...expedient, for you to be able to access the space, in my absence. _Don't_ lose it."

"On pain of eternal detention, yeah, yeah, we got it—"

Jim gives the key a final look over, though, before stowing it safely in his pocket. Then, though, he looks back to Walt.

"So what are _you_ gonna be doing while we're out running around? More 'errands?'"

Walt sits back in his chair. "As I explained to your mother," he says, "Gunmar still doesn't know I'm alive. Information from Trollmarket is at a premium; if nothing else, I'm sure I could shave a few hours off searching for ingredients by sneaking inside—"

"Oh, absolutely not." Barbara surprises herself, with how emphatically she says it, but—now that it's out there, in the open, she rolls with it. "You already could've gotten caught once today. Going into the belly of the beast, alone—it's too dangerous."

"And we _do_ know what he's doing," Claire adds. "Now that Gunmar has the Staff, he'll be looking for Morgana. We might not be able to stop him, but if he's busy looking for her..."

"He won't be worrying about us." Jim's nodding beside her, and she can practically see him rearranging the pieces on his mental chessboard. "But—what about here? What about my _mom_?"

The question takes her off-guard. She falters, for a moment, trying to think of what exactly she _could_ do, if worst came to worst. It's—incredibly frustrating, she thinks, to be _just_ human. It's not a frustration she's got a lot of experience with, since she's only become aware of it over the last twenty-four hours or so, but—still. It's galling. She's not used to feeling this useless; her hands are practically aching for something to _do_.

An idea occurs to her.

"You'll need a—a command center, for whatever's coming up. A home base, of some kind. Right?" She surprises herself, again, with the conviction in her voice, but—she turns to Jim, and gestures at the room around them. "Well. We've got a home."

Jim's pretense of composure vanishes instantly. "Mom, you don't have to—"

"I told you last night—it's our job to help you." She reaches out to cover his hand with hers. "Maybe I can't go out and get whatever all this stuff is, but I _can_ run support for you. I can hold down the fort. At least give you a place to stash this stuff, or—or to regroup, if anything goes wrong."

She still can't quite beat back a swell of worry, because even for all his allies, even under all his armor, he's still her boy. "Just—promise me you'll be careful, okay?"

"I—of course." His expression clouds over, like he's fighting the impulse to protest. He looks so grown up. He looks so _young_. "But if something happens—if you're here, alone..."

"I'll stay with her, then." Walt looks over to her. "As your bodyguard. There's not much stupid enough to try and break through wards set by the prince of wizards, but—just in case."

And oh, Jim _definitely_ doesn't look happy about that. But he just looks back to her—

"As long as you're okay with it," he says, after a moment. His eyes are very, very blue.

She squeezes his hand.

"Please, kiddo. I know there's not much I can do without awesome troll knight powers—not like your friends can, anyway." She gives him her best reassuring smile. "But this? This, I can do. So please: let me do this for you."

* * *

Once the kids head off (ostensibly) to school, though, she starts to realize just how boring running support can actually be. This isn't downtime, not exactly—she turns her ringtone up, almost as loud as it will go, just so she doesn't miss a text—but she still feels like she should be doing _something_. Part of her thinks she should take this opportunity to check back in with the hospital; but then again, what exactly is she supposed to tell them?

_Hey Wanda, it's Barb. Something came up—do you think I can swing another week or two of leave? See, unseen supernatural forces are conspiring around us to unleash the apocalypse—yeah, and also, there's a wizard living in my garage now that I gotta babysit—_

With the kids gone, and Merlin off doing—Merlin stuff, the day trudges on in a kind of restless haze. She spends the better part of the morning alternating between nervously checking for messages from Jim and watching Walt do any of a number of little esoteric jobs. The one of these she's most present for involves fixing up a book, one she thinks she might almost remember, if she concentrates hard enough. When he asks, she's happy to lend a hand, where she can, even if only to hold the rope while he jumps.

Touching something this old—this _magic_, if she wants to believe his half-evasive commentary—might be just about the only thing that could distract her from worrying about the kids.

"I still can't believe this is an actual manuscript." At the moment, she's not doing anything more complicated than holding the book's corners in place against the cool countertop tile, but it still doesn't feel any less like make-believe come to life. Whatever he's doing, it's delicate work, all fine little brushes and watery glue and surgical scalpels; she doesn't know how he's keeping his hands so steady. "I didn't think—I never realized people could actually _use_ them, still."

"Properly maintained, parchment codices are very durable," he explains. "And this one is—very old." He looks down at the book, then back up to her, like he's not quite sure how much he's allowed to say. "Fourteenth-century, mostly. Some of its contents are much older than that."

There's a lot not being said there, she can tell, but she pushes down her curiosity. Their hands have already touched—more than once—in the course of whatever he's doing, and it's all she can do not to think about it constantly. She's not sure she'd survive asking so directly.

So instead, she settles on: "Did you copy this?"

"Parts." He hesitates again, just a touch. "But these pages in particular, no."

_These pages_ are all in some writing system she's never seen before, tight and dense and unreadable in compact, elaborate characters. It's not English, at least not that she can recognize, nor any of the piecemeal Latin she'd picked up over years of med school.

She knows the questions she wants to ask are nothing more than distraction. Just as much as she knows she's watching someone who knows _exactly_ what he's doing.

But. Well. She's curious, now. And if it's not English, and it's not Latin...

"Are these in—_Troll_?"

His eyes dart up to hers, and he favors her again with that stupidly charming little smile. Then he says something back to her, just a few words she doesn't understand, all couched in that coy, maddening half-grin, and her eyes go wide with the realization: he just_ spoke Troll, _to_ her._

"What was _that?_"

"I—ah." The blush that comes over his features is—unexpected, but _incredibly_ good. "Merely an enthusiastic affirmative."

An _enthusiastic affirmative_. She tries to commit the sound of it to memory, even as the memory is already fleeting.

"I imagine not many humans have ever learned to speak Troll," she says, suddenly invested.

"Not—not recently, no." His eyes flick back down to the page—he's doing something with the scalpel now, cutting out a little patch of parchment, which looks like it needs a lot of attention. "Even when trolls and humans did interact, typically—trolls have much longer to learn languages, you see—so there was never much need for the opposite direction—"

Oh. Well—she supposes that figures. But still.

"Maybe we could change that." When he looks up to her, incredulous, she just shrugs. "You never know. With a—with a human Trollhunter, it might come in handy."

He huffs, almost a laugh. "You seem awfully interested. In the market for a tutor?"

And oh, if _that_ isn't an invitation. It's—she still doesn't quite know how she feels re: flirting with him, now. Even after last night, part of her feels like this is an impulse she should resist, however appealing. But when he makes it so easy...

She leans in, almost unconsciously. "Maybe. D'you think you might know someone?"

That earns her a cool little smirk. "I may have some prior experience in education, if you recall."

So demure, so _smug_. It's obnoxiously charming.

"Hm. I expect you have references."

"Oh, they're impeccable."

"I don't care how good Jim's is, it still only counts as one."

He snorts, though the haughty effect is somewhat diminished by a look of surprise he doesn't quite manage to conceal.

"As I said last night, I—I'm not under any illusions, as to what Jim must think of me." Just like that, the playful edge drops from his voice. He pats a patch of paper into place with a brush, and she tries to ignore the sudden sense of loss. "After all, it's not like you were exactly—wrong. About me."

"I don't need you to tell me that." Her voice is gentler than she would've expected, though, even if it's true.

And—she doesn't. Her memory of what happened before her magically-induced amnesia might still be a little patchy, but it doesn't feel fake.

Still. She looks back to the page he's mending. Two holes, a rip down the side.

"This is the binding spell," she says, slowly. It isn't a question. "Or—the undoing of it, anyway."

He smiles again, but this time, it comes off brittle and opaque, like a tarpaulin left too long in the sun. "I—I should have told you," he says. "From the beginning."

She doesn't exactly disagree with him, even though it's a statement so vague it could mean almost anything. She's a little distracted by the realization of what the book is, that this is real, that it's _magic_, the same thing that almost _killed_ her; the thought settles over her shoulders, too-bright and heavy.

But. Well. The dose makes the poison, right?

Too much foxglove can stop a heart, but just enough can treat heart failure. Snakebites can be cured by the venom that kills. Too much magic—a binding too tight, too close, a ligature glowing warm and purple around her neck—and she dies on a rock in a cave under the earth; but just enough, given in time and applied with skill, and she walks away.

"Those holes you're patching." Impressionistic and distracted as her memories of that night are, she's surprised by how well she manages to keep her voice from shaking. "I remember—I remember a javelin. But—funny. Warped."

"The _skathe-hrün_. A completely unconventional use of it, entirely the product of Miss Nuñez's quick thinking." He sounds impressed, nevertheless, even as he still won't meet her eyes.

"But one that tore up your book."

"The right choice, without question." He sets the brush down on the countertop, and pulls out a little bone folder. "Time was of the essence. If we'd been any longer getting the spell to Trollmarket—"

Both of them know what would have happened. It hangs between them like a downed power line, ready to spark.

"Well." She lets her eyes fall closed, and thinks of being the bigger person. Poison can kill, or it can cure. Downed lines might spark, but—they can bring the power back, too, if you take the time to fix them. "I—_appreciate_ your getting it to Jim."

When she opens her eyes again, he looks decidedly uncomfortable. Even as he still clings doggedly to the pretext of manuscript restoration.

"Don't get me wrong," she adds. "I'm still pretty pissed that you—that you _linked_ us in the first place." Because she definitely is. She doesn't—she still doesn't even know how to begin that conversation, so for the moment, she just lets it stand. "But—at least I'm here to be angry about it." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "And to help you fix your weird, magic book."

_Poison and cure. Bitter and sweet. _

"I—ah. Well." He looks away, again, though this time the gesture seems more transparent than before. "Your assistance is—much appreciated."

There's a lot unsaid, there. But, for the moment: it's acknowledgment enough. She's got enough unsubtle metaphors elsewhere; with him, with this, she'll take what she can get.

* * *

When Toby texts her in the early afternoon, it comes almost as a surprise. They've relocated to her dining room, finishing a late, quiet lunch when her phone goes off, and she's so excited at the sound she nearly leaps out of her seat.

The first thing to pop up is a selfie, in which a pleased and slightly rumpled Toby grins back at her. In the crook of his elbow, he's holding an enormous purple crystal, one that must be at least as long as her forearm. The color is so rich and intense it looks like it's under a black light.

The attached message is simple: _one down, two to go _🙌

From his seat across the table, where he's perusing a well-worn, scribbly notebook, Walt notices her distraction. "Good news, I hope?"

"An update from Toby." She tilts the screen towards him. "That's the—the shell thing, I guess? Antro—atrium—"

He slides the book closed, then leans over to get a better view. "The antramonstrum? Ah—indeed it is. Fitting that Tobias was the one to retrieve it."

"Let me guess. Another horrible Trollhunting story Jim hasn't told me about?"

"Antramonstra are—voracious gases. Not to mention highly corrosive." He flashes that small, maddening smile again, half-coy and half-charm. "Tobias had the dubious pleasure of meeting that particular specimen while it was still alive. I'm sure he tells the story better than I can."

Of course it's some awful monster. Because this is her life, now, just as much as it's her son's, and his friends'.

Part of her, of course, thinks she should—disapprove, somehow, that the kids are maybe, technically skipping school. Or at least it thinks she should be a little more concerned. Another part of her is reasonably sure she's still just in shock.

But yet another part of her thinks:_ acid hell cloud_. And: _maneating troll warlord_. And: _end of the world as we know it._

And she figures: she's a little past worrying about truancy at the moment.

So she sends back her congratulations and a wish for good luck, and tries not to wonder about the kind of list that includes hungry clouds and human—or uncomfortably human-adjacent—bones.

* * *

Of course, it doesn't take long for the other shoe to finally drop.

He's been trying to get in touch with the museum director for a while. After almost half an hour, when he still hasn't got an answer, the worry on his face—however he tries to conceal it—tugs at something soft in her. Part of her hesitates to leave, not when she still has no clue when Jim might be back, but the rest of her—

Well. She remembers him saying the director was one of his friends. To see him this openly worried...it gives her a bad feeling.

And—anyway. It's really no trouble to drive him. After an entire afternoon of looking for something to do that doesn't involve meditating on recent brushes with death or babysitting a terrible wizard, she's almost grateful for the excuse to get out of the house.

The museum isn't far, though night falls surprisingly fast. When they pull up across the square, it's already dark. Compared to the last time she was here, the whole place looks deserted; she doesn't even have to parallel park.

Her brewing sense of unease isn't helped by the fact that, apparently, Walt thinks she'd be content to hang back and do nothing.

"This won't be like going for a walk around town," he says, as she's putting the car into park. "It may very well be walking into a trap, Barbara. I won't risk your safety—"

"I'm sorry, you still seem to be operating under the delusion that you can tell me what to do." It comes out a little snippier than she means, but—well. Like he said: it's dangerous to be alone. "You really think I'm just gonna chill out in the car while you go into someplace _you_ think is a trap?"

"I promised Jim I would keep you safe."

"And I meant what I said to you at the house." She pulls the keys from the ignition, and returns his gaze evenly. "We're in this _together_. Now are you coming, or not?"

He gives her a miserable look. If he wants to say something, she thinks, he can go ahead and say it. But if he wants her to hear him out, he'd better keep up, 'cause she's already getting out of the car.

It feels strange, to be heading towards the museum with such purpose when it's so obviously closed. As they approach the front entrance, though—she feels like the most visible person on earth—a problem occurs to her.

"Uh, Walt." She tries to keep her voice as calm as possible, though she's not quite sure she succeeds. "The doors are locked. How exactly are we going to get inside?"

To absolutely no one's surprise, he just gives her another cool little grin.

"Oh, the same way the Trollhunter did, I expect."

He leads her around the side of the building, all smooth and unremarkable, like he's supposed to be there. Once they're out of sight of the deserted square, he reaches up to one of the gallery windows, and it pulls open easily at his touch. But the trepidation she feels must be showing on her face, and his expression melts into a sympathetic look.

"You don't have to do this," he says again. "One can get in and out just as easily as two. Even more so."

"No, I—it's fine." She takes a deep breath, and looks up to the window. For what feels like the millionth time: she can't _believe_ this is her life. "If you give me a leg up, can you get in there on your own?"

A soft laugh. "Please, Barbara." The smirk this earns her really has no business being that attractive. "I'm not even being shot at."

She tries to hide a hysterical giggle, and only mostly fails.

"Okay. _Okay_." She takes a steadying breath. "Just—give me a boost."

With his help, she vaults up and through the window easily enough. She lands in an unlit hallway, weirdly empty, illuminated in a faint bluish cast from the streetlights outside.

No wonder she couldn't keep Jim away. That wasn't hard at all.

Walt takes no time in landing behind her, light and sure as a cat in the gloom. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—fine." She demonstrates by nearly tripping over her feet. "It's just—kind of dark in here, is all."

"Take my hand, if you like."

The cool confidence of his voice gives her a warm feeling, one she can't quite manage to fully tamp down. So, instead, she just asks: "Can you really see in this?"

Even in the dark, she can hear the smile in his voice. "I have—excellent night vision."

And oh, that's _definitely_ a troll thing, she can tell just from the way he says it. (She'll have to ask about it, she thinks, when they—if—_later_.) She pulls her phone out, anyway, because she figures two sets of eyes can't hurt. But whatever plans she has, she forgets them almost immediately as they turn into the main hall of the museum; the almost-playful mood between them vanishes like that, as quick and clean as throwing a switch.

The main hall is an eerie sight. Serene, washed-out moonlight pouring in through the skylight above belies the chaos of the scene: broken crates lie strewn across the floor alongside contents of sturdy-looking ropes and half-shattered, weirdly troll-like statues. Walt steps forward, cautiously, but even so—

"Something's wrong." His voice is carefully quiet, but his alarm is apparent. The quiet around them feels too deliberate, too contrived—like the setup to a bad dream. "Stay close."

"What—what _happened_ here?"

She casts her phone around, and the thin light falls onto one of the enormous stone statues. Unlike the others, this one seems mostly whole, and its craggy features, terrible and fierce, are frozen into an expression of agonized surprise as real as life—

When the light falls onto the thing's face, she yelps, despite herself. Of course, she also manages to fumble her phone, and it's only dumb luck that Walt's able to catch it before it clatters to the floor.

"What _is _that?!"

"It's—one of Gunmar's soldiers." Even in the dark, she can't miss how the color drains from his face. "If they came after her here..."

His meaning is clear enough: if they were here, they might be out in Arcadia. Where her son is out running around, completely unawares, on some wizard's stupid _fetch quest_.

Still holding her phone, he sweeps the light back up and out over the room. When it falls on a pair of what look like swords, wickedly curved and a weird, icy blue, his eyes go wide.

And—oh.

This lady is definitely not a normal museum curator.

"Nomura—"

She doesn't like the look of those blades. Even less so in the absence of their owner. (She doesn't want to think too hard about what could've gotten the drop on someone wielding that kind of weapon.) But the way Walt says her name—soft, disbelieving—makes it sound like he's found the answer to his question.

She gathers herself together, and tries to stand a little straighter. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

He peers warily into the darkness, like he's listening for something just on the edge of hearing. "I don't know—"

A door slams behind them.

"But _we're_ not." He takes her hand. "We need to go."

He's hurrying them both across the gallery floor when _something_ falls behind her, loud and close as an earthquake.

The jolt of its impact knocks her to the ground. When she rights herself, she's looking into the face that's cold and calculating and tangibly malevolent; she _knows_ she's frozen, she can feel his arms around her, trying to pull her upright, but when the thing raises a cruel-looking sword she can't help but scream—

"_Run_!"

Somehow, he manages to get her to her feet. They tumble into and alongside each other on a beeline across the room, righting themselves by sheer force of will and dumb, instinctual panic. She's holding onto his hand like a lifeline, and he's leading her to a door, but there they meet with another something just like the statue, just like the thing behind them, alive and immense with cold, glowing eyes—

She realizes, suddenly: they're boxed in.

"Walt," she says, voice trembling. Half-question, half-hysteric.

He turns to her. The—the things, the _soldiers_ are all around them, getting closer, spears drawn, but—he pulls her hand to his shoulder.

"Hold on to me," he says, "and take off your glasses."

"W-why?" Her hands are—they're shaking, worse than after her first night in the ER, worse than the last time she'd sat across a table from James. "What are you going to do?"

In the gloom of the museum, his eyes shine. "_This_."

The next few moments happen—very fast.

She ducks in close to him, just like he said. She throws her arms around his shoulders, and screws her eyes shut. There's a crackle like static, and the groans of the things around them turn indignant and surprised. She's not exactly sure what happens next: she feels him jump, and then, gravity inverts, but she's too busy paying attention to holding on for dear life, too preoccupied with the sound of her own pounding heart to hear anything past a cascade of shattering glass.

She's still holding on, through everything. Even as the air turns weirdly cold, for a California spring, and she can feel him doing—whatever he's doing. But when she dares to open her eyes—when she sees clouds, _below_ her—she just screams again.

"It's alright!" Two arms pull tight around her, and she realizes—it's _him_. He's holding on to her just as much as she is to him. "I've got you."

She makes the mistake of looking around again, and if she yells right next to his ear, she thinks, it _clearly_ isn't her fault.

"You can _fly?!_"

"Er—yes." Her view of his face is a bit offset, clinging as she is to the side of his neck. But nevertheless—absurdly, she thinks—he looks almost bashful. Somewhere underneath all of the terror, it's _stupidly_ endearing. "I'm also a keen...swimmer."

What the fuck is that even supposed to _mean_. What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

His arms around her are so strong, though, for half a moment she forgets to think about how _she's up too high_ and _she can't see the ground_ and how _she's definitely, absolutely going to die_. The whole world is lit in the soft, diffuse aquamarine of moonlight reflected off clouds, the sky above them deep and rich as velvet, all picked out in twinkling rhinestone stars: it could almost be beautiful, she thinks, if she wasn't absolutely terrified.

"We need to warn Jim." The urgency in his voice shatters her thought like so much skylight glass. She's not sure she trusts her voice not to fail, so she nods against his shoulder, as emphatic as she can.

Then—because how much weirder can this evening realistically get—a fucking _dragon_ shows up.

This close, she can feel his heartrate spike, even through his stone skin.

"What _is_ that?"

"Trouble. Hold on!"

She starts to reply with something biting and clever—_what do you _think_ I'm doing?!_—even as the wind whips her voice away. But she does as she's told, and hopes for the best, even if _the best_ at this point is _maybe _not getting eaten by a_ dragon_—

It lunges up from below them, a moon-colored streak against the backdrop of clouds and sky. He dodges, barely. Another one soars up beside it, and his eyes go wide. Somehow he turns, twisting away in midair on a dime, darting away and out of their reach. But then, she _knows_—the chase is really on.

They make it a ways thanks to his clever maneuvers. The—the _dragons_ are huge, and terrifying, and all she can see of them is _horns_ and _claws_ and _teeth_—but he's nimble and fast, faster than she would have guessed. He dives down through the clouds into a dizzy, horrible loop, and never in her life has she been more aware of gravity than she is now. She can't imagine what this must be like for him, doesn't even know how she could imagine it if she tried; the logistics of flying are all foreign to her, all abstract theoreticals she never thought would come this close.

Then, one of the things bursts up from below, ramming into them and knocking her out of his reach. The next thing she knows, she's screaming, she's _falling_, like a dove, like a rock, like a _thing that wasn't made to fly_—

—and somewhere above her, in a flash, half-sight half-seen as she tumbles through the air, she sees he's falling, too: too far from her, too fast, a falcon in a stoop—

In the blind, empty headspace of the freefall, she realizes: this is how she's going to die. She knows it with a sudden, terrible clarity; the blood rushing to her head is making it hard to think, but—she must have reached terminal velocity by now. They were high enough up. The thought is almost welcome, a cold, clear relief against the overwhelming panic. She was never great at physics, but at least—at least it shouldn't hurt.

She closes her eyes. Doctor or no, she doesn't want to see this.

She thinks of Jim. Of breakfast with him, in her kitchen. Of the strange, curious softness of stone, and things left unsaid.

There's a horrible crunch. She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain.

Then—which is weird, she thinks, seeing as she's pretty sure she should be a smear on the pavement by now—a car alarm blares out from beneath her, sudden and obnoxious.

She's not quite sure what she was expecting of death, but this—this isn't it.

But when she cracks an eye open, just a bit, and it hits her—

He caught her. She's not dead. He caught her, and the crunch was—and she's—she's _not dead_.

She throws her arms around him. That stupid alarm might just be the sweetest sound she's ever heard.

Then, before she can say anything, they're airborne again, alighting to another groan of protesting metal and the whip-crack of stone wings. She's still stunned, and elated, and not quite sure how she's still alive, but she's so full of the giddy shock of it she could just about _kiss_ him—

She catches a glimpse over his shoulder and realizes, though, the dragons are still after them. He's back in the air, but staying low; he's still quick, still agile in ways she can't understand, but now their pursuers have the advantage of height.

"Lose them in the forest." She doesn't know why she says it—after all, she's still a little surprised her voice works, after—_after_—but the thought just makes sense, for some reason she can't explain. It must be a good one, because all he says is "_doctor's orders_," and she _feels_ the rumble of the words against her chest, and all she can think is—

_If they make it out of this, she's going to have him over for dinner again. He'll bring wine, and they'll order in, and she'll make him that stupid Austrian cake _herself_—_

She tucks her face against his neck, and holds on, as tight as she can.

For the next few seconds, everything looks like it might just turn out—until an awful shriek rings out through the air, and she hears the trees whipping around her, the crunch of a landing, and then, finally, finally, nothing.


	4. small endings

She wakes up in a jail, of all things.

Her head is pounding. Her mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Her back is _killing_ her, and as she shifts against the bars of the—_cage_, apparently, that she's hanging in, she has to bite back a hiss; she can already feel a spray of bruises blooming down her ribs.

The last thing she remembers is—it feels like something out of a dream. She remembers sneaking through the museum, _flying_, crashing onto a cushion of living stone; a dream-that-wasn't, she knows. But the more she recalls of it the worse her worry becomes. Her thoughts jump to Walt: she tries to fight down the sudden pang of worry, but all she can think of is how she's _alone_, how they'd been chased by _dragons_, how he'd _caught_ her, how if she's alone, here, what are they doing to _him_—

She pulls herself into a sitting position, gingerly as she can. She tries to take a deep, centering breath, until her body protests—_high-speed crash landing_. The dull ache in her lungs turns into a pointed one, and she almost chokes.

Okay. Fine. She sits back against the bars behind her, and tries to keep her breathing steady. She's pretty sure nothing is broken, just—bruised. Hopefully. (Part of her wonders: _can stone bones break? Do trolls even _have_ bones?_ ...It sounds less stupid in her head.) Still—she can take a hint.

But even if she might not be getting out of this cage any time soon, she can still do her best to get some further information.

The most obvious problem with this plan, of course, is that she's stuck inside a fucking cage. Whatever this place is—abandoned mine, jail cave, torture chamber, whatever—it's mostly just big and dark and empty. The cage was built to hold things stronger than her; it's big enough inside that she could stand up, if she wanted, but she must be suspended some thirty feet or more up off the ground. After almost falling to her death once in this lifetime, she isn't exactly jumping to push her luck.

She's halfway into wondering if she could pick the lock with her hairclip when, without warning, the world around her jolts. The sudden flood of movement is followed by the shrieking clank of metal on metal, and then, it hits her: the cage is sinking.

"You're awake." A smooth, cool voice rings up from below. "Good."

Her eyes dart downwards, and she only jumps a little when she sees the speaker is—a _troll_, right. Because this is her life now. From above, clad in a flowing robe and a collar of feathers and what Barbara thinks must be a crown, she looks almost ethereal. The whole ensemble is all picked out in brilliant blue bioluminescence, and her eyes gleam bright and deep as she watches Barbara's descent.

"This will be easier if you're cooperative," the woman says as the cage comes to rest, just a few feet from the ground. Her voice could almost be described as _motherly_, in the same way the word could be used, theoretically, of Lady Macbeth.

But Barbara's manners are a little strained, at the moment, and she doesn't miss the implied threat. So, before she can think better of it, she snaps:

"Who the _fuck_ are you?"

"Oh, introductions won't be necessary. Netting a human wasn't part of the plan, but then, you're not just any human, are you?" A snort of contempt. "The Trollhunter's mother. And judging by who you showed up with, a _considerable_ source of leverage."

Her breath catches. _Walt_.

"Where is he?" She can feel her heart beating, in her fingers, against her ribs, but somehow the faintly pulsing pain doesn't seem to matter much. She doesn't know anything about interrogation—she's a fucking _doctor_, not a, a soldier or a knight or a spy—but she can guess what these cages are for.

"Exactly where he should be. As are you. As both of you will remain. This is a critical juncture: the Underlord can't afford another slip-up."

The _Underlord_—oh, no. No. _Nonono__—_

Her captor flashes an unpleasantly sharp grin. "Like I said. Leverage."

"Don't—don't you fucking _dare_," Barbara hisses. She can see what's about to happen, as clear as day; she feels like a child, like an _idiot_. She isn't blind—even if she wasn't quite ready to admit it, even to herself—but she should have guessed, she should have _known_ they would try to use this. "Don't you _dare_ hurt him—"

"You're hardly in the position to be making demands," the troll woman says. "The _impure_ isn't the only one who can wield a subtle knife—"

"Don't _call_ him that!"

"Oh? And you'd propose a better alternative?" She stalks around the cage, forcing Barbara to turn to keep her in her sight. Her guards stand behind her, silent and watchful. "Shall I tell you how long he's worked for Gunmar's return? How eagerly? He's steered the Janus Order for _centuries._ Longer than I've been queen. You're nothing but a _blip_, girl. This is bigger than a lovestruck changeling and his pet human. I'm only going to remind him where his loyalty is owed."

_Not if I have anything to say about it._

Barbara—she's not stupid, obviously. She's still trapped inside a cage. What are you supposed to do if you get kidnapped? _Fuck_. Probably the exact opposite of whatever she's just been doing. She's definitely at the disadvantage, no doubts of that.

But she can still stall for time. Or—information. At least _something_.

"Jim's not stupid, you know." She pitches her voice up, and tries to sound as defiant and _human_ as possible. "He knows you have Trollmarket. He's with Merlin right now. And when he finds out you've got me—"

"He's a human child," the woman sneers. "Gunmar is a king. The right hand of a _god_—"

"And he's going through all this trouble for little ol' me? Some king!"

The woman grins. Barbara realizes, then, just how far she is out of her depth—how stupid it was to try and outsmart the one who had her in a cage.

"_Humans_." Another snort. "No matter how much time passes, you still think everything is about you."

She pulls out a mask. When she puts it on, Barbara feels her jaw drop.

"We're done here," the queen says, in the uncanny lilt of a stolen voice. The sound is familiar, but the intonation, the cadence—it's all wrong. Like hearing a recording of yourself, but a thousand times worse. "I'll be sure to pass on your regards."

"I—no!" Barbara jerks forward, forcing herself through the sudden flash of pain in her side. "Wait—no, don't you _dare_—"

The queen merely turns to one of her guards, as if she doesn't hear.

"Take her to the Forge. In case negotiations should become—_dramatic_."

* * *

They do, of course. Once it's all over, she thinks, maybe she'll be able to understand. Or at least understand _better_.

She holds onto the thought, even as she's brought before—Gunmar, the _Skullcrusher_, an ancient, hateful mountain of void-colored stone and eerie gold. And even after. Even as she watches Walt's hands close around the staff, even as she hears him speak the incantation, she tells herself: there's got to be a reason. There _has_ to be a reason to this.

They run for their lives through the deserted streets, and even underneath the sight of the dying crystal—all she can think about is the warmth of his hand in hers. She tries not to remember how—how she'd crumpled, when they'd thrown her out before him. How, despite everything, her stupid _feelings_ had been obvious enough to be exploited—

How the world wasn't worth this. How _it is to me_.

As he flies them out of the magic gate into the fading afternoon sun, and she lands her full weight on him for the second time in as many days, she holds on to the thought: they've got to warn Jim. As she's pulling herself up, she can see Claire and Toby running to meet them in the canal. Walt tells them about Morgana, and then Claire's whipping out her staff, and there's that weird un-noise of it activating, and—

They have to get back to the house, she knows. And—she trusts Claire. Really. But that portal—it gives her a bad feeling.

When she walks through, she grabs onto Walt's hand, and doesn't let go, not even after they step out onto the blacktop in front of her house.

But when she walks through her front door, into what looks like the aftermath of a burglary, she realizes: _reason_ has nothing to do with this. Merlin's standing in her hall, smug as anything. Jim's nowhere to be seen. She hears the words Merlin is saying—_becoming a true Trollhunter_—and she's aware of Walt going tense and white-hot with anger beside her, but she doesn't quite—parse all of it, not clearly. Not as quickly as she should.

And then, when the understanding hits her—that he did something to Jim, that her son is missing, that there's no _reason_, in this—

As she turns to run up the steps, all she can think is: she's going to kill that fucking wizard.

* * *

She doesn't know exactly what time it is when Jim finally staggers back to the house. At first, she's so dumbstruck—he looks so lost, so exhausted; that's her boy, that's her _baby__—_all she can do is call out his name.

But if her higher brain functions are fried at least her training's still good. When he collapses into the foyer, she springs into action without hesitation, without thought, turning him gently onto his back and looking for a pulse. Whether or not that's still applicable feels a bit moot; she's too busy trying to move all two hundred or more-odd pounds of dead weight onto the couch all on her own, ignoring the righteous protest of her ribs, to wonder if her _son_ should still have a _pulse_.

His breathing is so shallow. Steady, but again: she doesn't know if that means anything any more. He's so heavy, in the armor. He's—he's taller, too. Not to mention the obvious things, like the horns, or his _hand_, or the fact that—that he's fucking _blue_.

But. He's still her son. No matter what shape he's in, there's no world where her hands don't remember how to hold him.

She hardly notices the sound of the back door opening, of footsteps racing up the hallway behind her. Walt had vanished into the back yard to make phonecalls, but—working together, they at least manage to get him up onto the couch.

They're not alone for long. It takes less than a minute for Toby to come barreling across the court; he's still texting as he slides through the door, and then, a few seconds later, Claire's hopping out of a portal into her living room. Blinky and Aaarrrgghh get back not long after.

None of it—_none_ of it—makes this any easier.

Even after Jim wakes up, even as she's watching him bound off into the back yard with his friends, her emotions are doing—complicated things. It's hard to imagine that not three days ago she was completely, blissfully unaware that her son was anything but a normal human teenager. A little grumpy, a little withdrawn, but still—a kid. She was less separate from him then, she thinks, than she is now, even as she stands with nothing more than a back door between them.

She can hear Walt behind her, cleaning up some of the mess in the living room. Some part of her, muted and distant, needles her to go over and help him—at least to have something to do. But she still can't quite tear herself away from watching Jim, not yet.

When she does finally turn around, she tries to put on a brave face.

"So." Her voice feels sickly-sweet, all fake cheer and sugar, too heavy on her tongue. "He seems to be handling this well, right?"

Walt freezes. "I—sure."

He doesn't _look_ sure. The hesitation in his voice isn't particularly reassuring.

"What's wrong?"

He glances over to her, before looking back to the bookshelf. "It took me years to handle the diverse emotions of either troll or human," he explains, finally, gingerly sliding a book back into place. "But—I've _never_ had to deal with both at once."

Something cold and heavy settles in her stomach.

"Will I _ever_ get my son back?" Her voice sounds pathetically small.

The look on his face, though, is answer enough. She turns around on reflex, tears hot in her eyes, even as her sudden shyness strikes her as absurd. As if—as if after the past few days she'd have any reason to be ashamed of crying in front of him—

"But—I've been wrong before." He laughs, then, sudden and forced, but—almost conciliatory. "After all, what do I know about being human?"

The way he says it—it's offered like a gift. Like an admission, a reminder. (As if she could forget, after—after _flying_. After the feel of his hand, in hers.) Part of her thinks: this is the first time he's ever said it to her so directly. To see something so vulnerable, offered so plainly—it makes her want to be gentle. It's an odd kind of olive branch, stunted and bruised—but still green. The kind of thing that could grow, if it was cared for right.

She wants to ask more. She doesn't think she can bear to know.

She pulls herself upright, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I—I appreciate you doing all this." She tries to keep her voice steady as she turns back to her living room, and manages, mostly, until her eyes come to rest on the spot where Jim had been lying on the couch. "_God_, Walt. This really is a mess, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's not that bad, really. Most of the knicknacks I think should be salvageable—"

"No, I mean—" She gestures at—at nothing, at everything. "_This_. All of this—wizards, Gunmar." _Jim_. "The end of the world."

"Ah." He tenses, before setting down the last of the books he'd been holding. A few seconds later, she's aware of his hand on her arm, leading her lightly over towards the couch.

"You told me," she says, as she lets herself be moved. As she sits down, she squinches her eyes shut, like a child pretending she's invisible. "You _told_ me this was going to be a shitshow. And here I am, still acting like—like I'm _surprised_."

"In fairness," he says gently, "I don't think anyone could have predicted this."

She opens her eyes again just in time to see his expression change. When his eyes go soft, she feels her lip start trembling.

"This is bullshit," she says, petulant. It's less than meaningless, but the sentiment is intensely felt. At least Jim's out of the house, so maybe if she swears enough, she'll feel a little better. "This is—this is _such_ bullshit, Walt."

He stifles a quiet laugh. "Well. You're hardly wrong."

"I just—I just keep thinking. If we had been here—if I'd been faster, getting out of Trollmarket—"

"What happened in Trollmarket was hardly your fault." There's a bitterness to the words, one she's surprised to hear so openly. "You had—you've known our world _exists_ for, what, all of three days? And to be thrown from that into the presence of—" He shakes his head. "No. You've done admirably. More than anyone could have expected."

"I let a wizard into my _house._" She reaches up to pull off her glasses. "A wizard who turned my son into a _troll_."

"And when you saw he wasn't human, your first instinct was still to help." His voice is still pitched for reassurance, but there's an undercurrent of something—something self-deprecating and sharp, that she thinks she's not quite meant to notice. "Barbara, I assure you: there have been _worse_ reactions."

The way he says it—he says it like he _knows_. It's still an understatement, just a glimpse of some bigger truth, the glint of light off a knife in the dark. But the way he says it, the way his eyes widen, just so, as he hears what he's actually saying, makes her think—

Oh. _Oh_.

She—she doesn't want to pry. Doesn't want to—imagine things she has no idea about.

_What can she say? She's got a soft spot for children wronged by their parents._

"I want to be—I want to be more than just 'not worse,' for him," she says. Her voice is softer than it feels—gentler, than what she's been through. "I don't want to just—pretend nothing is different. But to actually be there to help."

She looks over to him, not quite directly, not quite out the corner of her eye.

"So for someone—for someone in the position Jim is now," she says. "What could a parent do, to help?"

A beat passes. He won't meet her eyes, but gives her a fond, crooked smile.

"That might be a long conversation," he says, at last. "Are you sure you want to have it now?"

She almost laughs. "Is there somewhere you have to be?"

"Point taken. But—well." He rubs the back of his head, and it's such an endearing gesture, she can't help the blush that comes over her cheeks. "Shall I at least make some tea?"

"As long as you help me figure out what is and isn't safe to touch in the kitchen."

That coaxes another laugh out of him: soft, but sudden, pleasantly real. After everything—after _everything_—it's probably the best sound she's heard since Jim woke up.

He offers her his hand.

She closes her eyes, and pulls herself up from the couch with as much grace as she can muster. She tries to push down her worries, even as it seems like an impossible task.

(Maybe it's just a decade of separation, maybe it's just the fact that the comparison kind of makes her want to scream. But—as they walk over to the kitchen, and her eyes fall on the bookshelf, she's having a hard time imagining James helping her straighten up _anything_. Since when did this presence in her home become so steadying, so familiar?)

* * *

Of course that's not the end of it. Not an hour after she gets him back, Jim sneaks out again, and even as it cuts her deep to see him hurting like this—she thinks she can understand. Not that she can begin to imagine what he's going through, but—she can empathize, with the feeling of the world rising up around you, of feeling lost and adrift against wave after crashing wave of endless, idiotic bullshit.

What's important is: he comes home, again.

And, just under that—well. Walt had been there, just beside her, when they climbed up on top of the school roof to find him.

Not even the _wizard_ showing up had been able to ruin that.

* * *

The following morning, the first floor of her home is a busy swarm of activity. It's an odd feeling, to see her house so full. It doesn't feel real, even as at the same time as she can't shake the feeling that maybe, for the first time in her life, she's finally seeing things as they really are.

"Barbara—a moment?"

After a morning spent mostly in one long discussion of battle plans, Walt's voice is a welcome distraction. He's not—_lurking_, she wouldn't say. Mostly because if he _is_, he's not doing a very good job of it. (Surely an ancient magic spysassin would be better at making himself scarce?) But he looks—concerned.

She shoots one last glance over to Jim—still talking with Merlin and the little changeling in the kitchen—before slipping out of the room and following him into the foyer.

"Is everything okay?"

"Merely wanting some privacy," he explains. "You were looking overwhelmed earlier, and—"

She sighs, hoping the gratitude comes through more clearly than she hears it. "It's just—I mean. You know."

"This is the first time you've experienced something like this," he says, not unkindly. "It's—well. It's to be expected."

"Yeah. Yeah. I guess—I just felt like I had more _time_." Another quiet sigh. She—she looks away. "Ever since getting my memories back, I've just kept thinking—just one more day of normal. And then—then, the end can happen."

He gives her a gentle look. "So do all who live to see such times, my dear."

"_Hey_. I'm not Frodo, and you're _definitely_ not Gandalf."

"Oh?" His tone is _offended_, but his eyes are almost amused. "Perhaps I should show you, some time, just how much I know of magic."

She bats at his shoulder to cover up how much she _desperately_ wants to hear more. How surprisingly welcome this—this _banter_ is. "Don't let Merlin hear you," she says. "I've had enough of his lectures in the past two days to last a lifetime—"

They both stifle a laugh, and a pleasant lull falls over their conversation.

"You and Nomura are going with the kids—with Claire and Toby, downtown," she says, after a moment. She thinks back to what she remembers—or at least what she'd understood—of the discussion earlier, watching Toby and Blinky move pieces around her dining room table like a chessboard. "Are you going to be—?"

"Nomura is a formidable combatant." He looks away, but his expression grows fond. "And—she feels more warmly towards the children than she lets on. They'll be well-guarded, I assure you."

"Okay." She thinks she's getting better at telling when he's being deliberately honest, which she appreciates. But avoiding the question is still avoiding the question. "But what about _you_?"

His smooth exterior suddenly falters. "Oh, I—I shouldn't worry."

"You _should_ know by now that I'm _very_ good at worrying."

"With all the practice you've had lately, it's not a surprise." The smile he gives her is small, almost exasperated, but incredibly soft. "Barbara, I—trust me. I know my way around a fight. I'm more worried about you." He gives her a knowing look. "I'm sure you're not going to evacuate like a sensible person—"

She stands a little straighter, and crosses her arms. She doesn't need to answer that.

He gives an exasperated roll of his eyes, before grumbling something that sounds suspiciously similar to _like mother, like son_. "At least tell me you're not planning on going out?"

She meets his eyes evenly.

"I thought as much." He looks like he's doing his best not to protest, which she appreciates, though there's a spark of something else in his eyes she can't quite read. "Then—at least take this."

He pulls his hand from his pocket, and offers her a feather-shaped knife.

"Walt," she says, dumbly. She doesn't know what else she _can_ say.

"It won't cut you," he says, too quickly. "If—if that's what you're worried about. They're enchanted. You might—"

"Recognize it?" She realizes, distantly, that her voice has gone a little shrill, and belatedly tries to keep it down. This close, in the soft light of the hall, she can see the blade is faintly patterned, silky-bright and fresh from a dream. "Walt, this is—this is one of your knives!"

His ears turn a little pink, but he just nods. "I won't be able to protect you while I'm—elsewhere. So I simply thought—"

"I—I have no idea how to use this," she sputters. "I'm a doctor, Walt, not a—not some kind of—_knife fighter_!"

"Then I'm sure you know better than most what they say about knife fights and hospitals." His expression turns worried. "Don't use it if you don't have to. But—if you do have to defend yourself, this should give you at least the element of surprise."

She stares at the knife for what seems like an age. It gives her a funny feeling—one that's too big, too final, too _near_ to try to name.

But in the end—she takes it.

It's cool and solid. _H__eavy_, for its size. It fits easily in her hand, more so than she'd ever have guessed. When she picks it up, their fingers brush, just for a moment.

Walt flashes her a brief, relieved smile. Then, he stands up a little straighter.

"There's—one more thing we need to discuss." He won't meet her eyes as he says it, which doesn't do anything to calm her own frazzled nerves. "You're aware of Jim's plan to rescue the familiars?"

"Only what I overheard him saying to Merlin," she says, a little distractedly. She slips the knife into her pocket, careful not to catch the fabric of her jeans. "Something with—a crystal, and something called the 'Fetch?' And the little green guy." She levels him a penetrating look. "I'm guessing I'm missing something."

"There's also—one further detail." He takes her hands in his. "If—_when_ the familiars are returned, that is, I—"

"Hey, Mom?"

Oh,_ speak of the devil_—

"Jim!"

She sees him stifle a wince as he leans around the corner, and tries not to feel like a delinquent teenager caught with her—_boyfriend_. Honestly, they were only holding hands.

"I was actually going to ask if she knew where _you_ were," he says to Walt. His voice is—a little frosty, but not as much as it could be, which she's somehow grateful for. "I wanted to ask you something, about—something."

Jim isn't usually this evasive. But given—well—_everything_, she wants to be conscious about giving Jim his space. And—some things, she thinks, can't be easy in front of your mother.

She looks up to Walt.

"Why don't I let you two talk?" She squeezes his hands. "You know where to find me, after." Then, trying to lift the mood a little: "Just—promise me, no fighting when I'm in the other room this time, alright?"

Jim looks like he's trying not to laugh, but Walt just goes a little pink. "I—I'll come find you when we're done, then," he says, with a nod.

She returns it, and gives Jim a fond look, before heading back out into the kitchen and leaving them their privacy.

* * *

Telling Jim about her plans, of course, goes about as well as she'd expected.

"You...can't be serious." He looks—different, now, sure. But the face he makes is still so quintessentially _Jim_—it tugs at her heart to see it. "Right? I mean—Mom, it's going to be a nightmare out there. At least—at least let _him_ go with you—"

"Walt's going to help clear out the concert," she reminds him. Walt, leaning all cool and casual against the wall behind him, just looks resigned. "I've been doing this for years, Jim. Every earthquake, every wildfire—I'm a doctor. I need to be where I'm needed. And tonight, that's going to be the hospital."

He looks like he's going to protest again, but she can already tell—he's too _good_ to make a real argument against her.

And—she can understand. She _can_. "I can't follow you out on the front lines," she says gently. "But this, I can do. So let me help you. Okay?"

He laughs, clearly overwhelmed. "Just gonna rip that bandaid right off, huh."

She can't help the smile that creeps over her face. "You know it, kiddo."

Then, impulsive—she throws her arms up around him.

"Please, sweetie." She pulls herself tight to him. He's so _tall_, now—her brave boy, her knight in shining armor. And if she cries a little onto that armor, well. "Be safe."

"I—I will." He sounds so sure, so close to her—here, now, she wants desperately to believe it. "Don't worry, Mom."

She has to bite back a laugh. "If ever there was a time to worry, this is it."

She's so, _so_ fiercely proud of him. She's going to carry that worry in her pocket, cool and heavy as Walt's knife.

She hugs him tight again, before finally pulling herself away.

"Okay." She squeezes his arm, one last time, and steels herself. "I'll be at the hospital." She pushes up her glasses. The sight of the two of them, standing there, just inside the door—she wants to come home to this. She tucks the memory away, like a locket against her heart. "I've got a feeling it's gonna be a busy night."

* * *

By the time she gets to the hospital, things are still relatively normal. Lenz looks surprised to see her, but she dodges around him and heads right to Wanda. Words are had, favors cashed in, and Barbara picks up the extra shift without a fuss. But then, the sky goes dark, and after that she doesn't have time to think.

Here, she's in her element. Her movements are quick and precise, her judgment steady and sure. Being the only one around who knew about the whole _apocalypse_ situation, she does get a bit of a field promotion when the first ambulance shows up carrying a troll; but her floor team is nothing if not adaptable, and if they're discomfited by the thought of supernatural creatures they certainly take it in stride. She feels a surge of pride, regardless. She knows it's not easy to put away that kind of fear.

At first, it's mostly hysteria. People "seeing things," convinced they can't trust their own eyes. Then, they start seeing injuries: sprains, contusions. A couple of fractures. She prays it doesn't get any worse than that.

She's just coming off setting a broken arm when one of the reception techs runs up to her, breathless and ashen. "There's something you need to see," he grits out. "It's—Davitz radioed us from out on Montrose, but—you really need to see this, Dr. L."

She gets the sinking feeling she already knows what he means. But still—when he leads her out, just past the ambulance bay doors, and she sees the gaggle of trolls in that dull, black-and-green armor, just across the parking lot—

Something cold and sharp settles into her gut.

She tries not to think of Jim, her brave, selfless boy. A target the size of the moon painted on his back. She tries not to think of Walt, ancient and terrible and skinny and—_and_.

"We—we'll have to try some kind of lockdown." Her voice sounds oddly thin, in the gloom of the eclipse. "Stay operating, but cut the external lights. Get everyone inside. Away from the windows. If we look boring enough, maybe—maybe they'll pass us by—"

Of course, she should have known better than to say it aloud. Even at this distance, she can't miss how those cold-green eyes flick over to her.

Ugh. Fucking _figures_.

"Dr. Lake?" Judging by the panic in his voice, the tech sees it too. "What should we—"

"Get inside." Her gaze is laser-focused, matching the troll's as best she can. She finds herself suddenly thinking about things she never thought she'd have any need to think about: choke points; improvised weapons; the knife in her pocket, sharp and cool and heavy. "Get—get Wilson to lower the barricades. Call a Code Black. I'll try to distract them, just—_go_!"

She doesn't need to tell him twice. But as soon as he turns, the closest troll to them breaks from the pack, and starts _galumph_ing over the blacktop, directly towards them.

Without a thought, she pulls the knife from her pocket.

_Stupid_, she thinks, even as she grips it, shaky and unsure. One knife—that she doesn't know how to use!—and her sore, tired, fleshy human body against two tons of solid, hungry stone. _Stupid, stupid, stupid__—__that's what he was trying to tell you, even if you win a knife fight, you're still just gonna die in the_—

Distantly, she registers the blare of a siren.

She squares her shoulders, and plants her feet. Her side twinges, but—she's _got_ to give them a chance to start the lockdown.

Then, almost too quick for thought—the siren's getting closer, and louder, and when she half-turns her head to see all she registers is a flash of white and red, the _loud_ and _immediate_ roar of an engine, followed by a sudden, visceral _crunch_—

The troll goes soaring.

When it crashes into the pavement at the other side of the lot, it absolutely_ disintegrates_.

She takes half a moment to be absolutely, incredibly dumbstruck. Then, her thoughts catch up to her, and she's overcome by a surge of dumb, irrational anger—what kind of _idiot_ would have done something like that, they could've gotten themselves _killed_—

Oh, shit. The _crew_.

She runs over to the ambulance, without thinking. It's skidded to a stop just a few yards away; a faint stream of smoke is already pouring out from under the hood. But as she wrenches the driver-side door open, she realizes—

"_Davitz_?"

"Lake!" For having just rammed into a giant rock monster, the man sounds surprisingly cheerful. "I told the desk to let you know—me and Izzy here were just pulling back in when we saw—is that a _knife_?"

She feels her face flush, and quickly shoves it back into her coat pocket. "I—never mind about that. Are you okay? I—Ted, I can't believe you—what were you _thinking_?!"

He gives her an unimpressed look. "That thing was coming right at you—"

"Ted, you could have _died_!"

"Uh, boss?" Beside him, his co-pilot is looking worriedly at the gaggle of troll soldiers still hovering at the other end of the blacktop. "As much as I can't wait to see you get chewed out by the nicest doc in the roster, we've still got company—"

Ted takes one look across the parking lot, before revving the engine.

From this close, Barbara can tell the ambulance isn't going anywhere. (The engine really is starting to smoke.) But it's a clever bluff: some of the soldiers actually startle. They shoot the hospital one last, cold look before pulling together, and then, without another sound, they fade back into the trees.

And as the EMTS pull themselves out of the slightly crumpled cab, she dares to think: maybe—_maybe_ they'll make it through this. They might be just mundane, normal humans, but—they've still got each other.

At least for now, she's willing to consider it a win.

* * *

Once they get back inside, they decide not to call a lockdown after all, though everyone's still on edge. Mostly, she's trying not to think about it. She's _definitely_ not hiding in the break room, trying her best to chug a cup of the burnt, horrible sludge from the coffee pot and pull herself together for another round of triaging, when she notices she's not alone.

Leaning against the opposite wall is one of the newer nurses—Bennet, according to her ID. _Karine_, her memory supplies. A nice girl, fresh out of school somewhere in the Midwest, a good head on her shoulders. When Barbara sees her eyes are just a tinge red, she can't help but feel for her.

She pours another cup of sludge, and walks over.

"Here. You look like you might need this."

Bennet—_Karine_ smiles, nervous, and takes it gratefully. "Sorry," she huffs. "I just—they never said anything about anything like this in nursing school."

"Welcome to professional medicine," Barbara laughs. "It just gets weirder from here." She takes one look at the phone in Karine's other hand, and thinks—_ah_. "You've got someone out there?"

"My—my girlfriend." Karine blushes, and looks pointedly down at the cup. "Things just started happening too fast, so she's holed up with her nephew in our apartment. She says she's okay, but..."

"I know the feeling." Barbara takes a steadying breath, and focuses resolutely on the cieling. "My son's out there, too."

"No kidding?" Karine gives her an uncertain look. "But I—maybe I just have a bad memory for these kinds of things, but I thought you said your son was—"

"—in high school? Yeah. He's—he can be pretty insistent."

Her eyes go wide. "_Oh_."

"Yep."

Karine stares into her coffee. "It's—this is all really real, isn't it?"

"I don't think you ever get used to it." Barbara tries to offer her a reassuring smile. "Though if it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure most ERs aren't..._normally_ like this."

Karine gives a half-hearted laugh. "I just—it seems like something out of a nightmare," she confesses. "And my head is here, and everything, I know, I know. But—I mean, those things from the parking lot?" She shudders. "And then—well. Winnie sent me this video, but—_well._ It's crazy. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Oh?" Despite herself, Barbara can't resist a tired grin. "Try me."

"Well—" Karine gives her an unsteady look. "I know. I know, we've seen a lot of crazy stuff tonight. But I feel like I must be going delirious, 'cause I've watched it three times now, and all I can think is—the fucking Mothman doesn't even _live_ in California—"

—hold up. "_Mothman_?"

Karine holds her phone out with a shaky hand, and hits _play_ on a message sent from someone identified with only a string of heart emojis. The video isn't good—too far away, for one, and whoever's shooting is too panicked to track the shot properly—but it's clear enough what it's trying to capture.

Even from a distance, even in only a few half-centered, unfocused frames, there's no mistaking that silhouette.

Despite herself, Barbara barks out a startled laugh, and when Karine just _looks_ at her—

"Maybe he's on our side," she offers, not quite sure she's up for another round of explanations. Or how much she's allowed to say—how much is hers to say—even now. Then, when Karine breaks into a nervous laugh: "Hey, you never know. Weirder things have happened, right?"

* * *

Later—later. _Much_ later.

She's leaning against the wall just outside the emergency entrance, just taking in the sight of the world, when she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. The pile of broken rock across the lot is glinting weirdly in the half-light of the sun—the _sun!_—and for a moment, she's too distracted, too dazed, by the sight to connect impulse with stimulus, at least not right away.

Then she realizes her fucking phone is going off and about fumbles it into orbit, she's so eager to get to it. Her heart races with possibilities (_Jim_) and fears (_Jim_). She swipes opens the message without thinking, and she doesn't recognize the number, but—

_it's over. he did it. _

_he's exhausted, but alive._

There's only one person, she thinks, that could have sent these.

Another buzz from her hand. She looks down to read it—

_shall i come pick you up_?

She looks up at the bits of blue peeking through the patchy stormclouds—that's really all they look like, now, nothing like the gloomy firestorm of half an hour or so ago—and thinks: there's really only one answer she wants to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me all this way!! only one more chapter left to go >:)


	5. post-apocalyptic suburbia breakfast (epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very first morning of the rest of their lives starts some time in the early afternoon.
> 
> (In her defense: they'd had a _very_ late night.)

After—after.

* * *

She rouses, once, early in the morning. The house is so quiet; the slightest hangnail of moon, peeking through her window, casts the entire world in a soft, dreamy haze.

Somewhere, under the pillows and blankets and bone-deep exhaustion, she hears a series of buzzes from her phone. She jolts into half-consciousness with a start, tensing and flailing into her bed and only barely managing to keep from flinging her phone across the room. But when nothing's on fire, or screaming, or physically moving her to pay attention, something in her relaxes, and she falls back into bed with a soft, confused sigh. Why had she gotten so worked up, anyway? She falls back asleep with the phone still in her hand.

Later, when she cracks her eyes open to full golden sunshine and the warm, soft cocoon of her covers, she rolls over on reflex to check her phone, just like always. But when she does, she notices: she has an _alarming_ number of missed message alerts.

Which indicates—she has messages. She has _texts_.

She fumbles around for her glasses, and swipes her lock screen open.

* * *

_mom!!! i'm texting you. claire suggested i do it now, while we're on break, because i am quote-unquote "unreliable" about some things even if i want to do them, so if this wakes you up you know who to blame._

_it is our first break of the night and we're okay. everyone's fine._

_i hope you're resting, or sleeping, or—taking care of yourself. hopefully sleeping._

_blinky says we're just outside vegas, but i'm pretty sure he just...doesn't understand surface geography lol. that's like, five or six hours from arcadia by car, right? i'm pretty sure we're not that fast. not without a gyre, anyway._

There's a selfie attached to the next message. In it, an exhausted-looking Claire is leaning against Jim's side. They're just lit by the light of the moon, but they're both laughing, and—

_claire also said you might like a picture. though i'm pretty sure you'll probably still be asleep when i send this? _

_i hope i didn't wake you._

_anyway i'll let you go, now. i'm sure you've got lots you're doing, and_

_well, we're gonna try to make some more headway! burning night, as blinky likes to say._

_i'll send more updates the next time we make a pit stop. (it's a pain to try and send stuff underground...)_

_would you_

_tell strickler—thanks. if you see him. i mean, if he's around. or whatever. he'll know what i mean._

_and—just promise me you'll rest, okay? you deserve it._

_there's some blueberry waffles in the freezer when you wake up. i know you like them, so—i put reheating instructions on the bag. _

_(DO NOT microwave them. i mean, just good advice in general, but you...you'll see what I mean.)_

_okay okay gotta go now i love you mom bye!!!_

* * *

Once she recovers—she doesn't cry _that_ much—she rolls into her comforter, and thinks: she should probably get out of bed and face whatever bold new future they've made.

The house is still quiet. She changes out of pajamas, but only into house clothes; she doesn't even bother pulling her hair up. (It's not like she's going into work. Not today, not even if Lenz came and begged on her doorstep. Her entire left side is an absolutely disgusting watercolor of puke green and royal purple, sore and tired and hard-earned, it looks _awesome._) She's an adult and a _hero_ and a goddamn homeowner and it is still completely her right to pad down the steps like a teenager trying not to get caught after curfew. Still—when she catches sight of the clock in the living room, she tries not to wince.

Well. Early afternoon or no. Waking up means breakfast, and breakfast means coffee. Anything more complicated than that is still probably a no-go, but if she goes slowly, and pays special attention, there's only so far she can fuck up bean water, right?

In the end, it's not that terrible. The microwave is definitely a lost cause—she opens it once, just long enough to discern that doing so was A Mistake—but her coffeemaker still seems basically intact. It takes more sugar than she likes for the resulting beverage to pass into _drinkable_, and by the time she's done with the creamer it probably doesn't legally constitute _coffee_ any more—even if it still reminds her, _achingly_, of Jim—but. It's a start.

It's not a mystery what her problem is. The house feels too big. Part of it, she knows, is Jim: his departure left a hole bigger than him behind, one that's threatening (against her valiant efforts) to swallow her whole. But even Walt—even after—after everything. He's nowhere to be found.

She tries not to feel his absence too keenly. Things had been a little touch-and-go, after he'd come to pick her up from the hospital. (And, _God_, hadn't that been a sight: svelte and cool and _handsome_ and _green_ in his little sensible car, practically the entire floor team ogling as she ran up and screamed and cried a little and hugged him through the window before he finally talked her into hopping into the passenger seat. Karine had—_yelled_.) But, needless to say, she'd thought they'd been cool. They'd seen Jim off and come back to her house and he said he'd take first watch and then she'd passed out in her bed.

She takes a sip of her God-awful coffee and tries not to think about it too hard. After all, she thinks: in the end, it's not like he'd have had any reason to stay. Surely he's got his own place to worry about, not to mention the—the familiars.

He'd explained what the crystal was, as she drove them back from seeing Jim off. (She'd offered, on impulse, after seeing how exhausted he looked from flying—_flying_—to go pick the thing up. She then spent most of the trip trying desperately to look better than she was at driving stick). Even now the thought of them—_thousands_ of them, he'd said, all of them, nothing more than _babies_—tugs at her heart. As long as they're being cared for, she thinks—that's what matters. Not—whatever _this_ was. Whatever it was, in the end.

She rubs a hand over her face. She—she needs some fresh air.

When she opens her back door, she nearly trips over him.

Walt is sitting on her back stoop, obvious as anything. He's got his cape on again, holding the cradlestone in his lap. The shade from the house extends just past his shoulders, but only barely; she thinks, distantly, that this is the first time she's ever seen him in the sun. Seen him—like this.

Part of her remembers, or thinks it remembers, that this is somehow important.

They look at each other for a long moment. Her higher faculties seem to have short-circuited. She's thinking—quite a lot of things, really, but all in jumbled starts and stops. Like: oh. And: _he didn't_—. And: _oh._

After what feels like an eternity, she brings herself together enough to say: "Hey."

"Hey," he offers, slowly. Like he can't quite believe this conversation is happening.

_Welcome to the club, bud_.

It takes a second for her to realize: he's probably never seen her with her hair down. His eyes are—she bites back a thousand cheesy platitudes, even in the privacy of her own mind. They're gold and rust-red now, not green. And—the pupils are a little. Different.

But oh, seeing him look up to her like that—it's a look she could get used to. One she would like to cultivate, at any rate. To encourage, and to see again.

She wonders how long it would take to learn to bake that stupid cake.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" The rest of her brain is still—booting up, as it were, so for the moment, hospitality takes over. "I did make it this time, but. It's not completely undrinkable, I don't think."

"I—coffee sounds wonderful." He blinks. "Please."

She ducks back inside to fetch a mug—_it's going tibia great day!_—and when she returns, he still has one arm curled protectively around the stone. It's a lot bigger than she remembered, even if he can still balance it easily on his lap—but he still looks mildly surprised when she reappears. When he reaches up to take the coffee, their fingers brush.

Her back step isn't big. She manages to squeeze next to him, regardless.

"So."

"So."

A few moments pass. She spends them mostly just—appreciating. It's a nice California early afternoon, just on the threshold of summer: clear and warm and _perfectly_ sunny. They didn't die! Jim is—gone, sure, but okay. He _texted_ her. Her coffee doesn't taste the way it did when Jim made it, but it's not—_awful_. Maybe, someday, it could get better.

And—Walt's here, too. Sitting right next to her, in the early afternoon sun, the day after the end of the world.

The last time they were this close, they'd been half a mile above the museum.

She takes a steadying drink of her terrible bean water, and draws a deep breath.

"Four days ago," she says, "there was an entire secret world under my feet. One I didn't know anything about."

He's watching his coffee very intently. But she doesn't miss the way his ears flick back.

(She'd been so sure—Jim definitely couldn't go out in the day, she knows she's not making that up. The thought hurts too much for it to be made up. But—Walt can? Somehow? His little dinosaur feet are splayed out in the grass like a sunning cat's; he looks like he's enjoying it, just like her, definitely not about to spontaneously combust. A matter to investigate for later.)

"Jim says to thank you, by the way." When he looks surprised, she explains: "I woke up to a whole bunch of texts. Apparently they're somewhere between here and Vegas?"

"As I said, you've every right to be proud of him." Another non-answer. But she's getting used to it, she thinks. Maybe even learning how to read them. He looks—not _uncomfortable_ with the thanks, but unsure what to do with it, nevertheless. "You won't have to worry. Not with Blinkous watching over him, and certainly not with Claire."

"My sixteen year-old son is hiking across the country. _Underground_." She'd been a lot more hysterical about it last night, but—she knew, when Jim's mind was made up. After hearing from him this morning, it feels a little less tender. At least enough to almost joke about it. "Trollhunter or no, I think I'm still entitled to a little worrying."

He at least picks up on the lightness of her tone, though, and concedes her point with a gracious nod. 

"I want to thank you, too," she adds. A week ago—a few _days_ ago—she doesn't think she could have been so upfront about her gratitude. She wonders what week-ago Barb would think of this. She wonders what _yesterday_-Barb would think of this. "For whatever advice you gave him. For—for all you've done, these past few days."

"Seeing as I'm largely responsible for getting us _into_ the last few days," he says, dry as salt, "I suppose we can call it even."

"You showed up when it mattered. Walt, you—when push came to shove—"

The smile he flashes is soft, but fond, even as he won't meet her eyes. "As ever: you're too kind."

They sit in silence again. The coffee continues to kind of suck, but—even in silence, the companionship doesn't.

Eventually, he sets his mug down on the flagstones, and turns slightly to face her.

"Barbara. There's—something you should know."

He's doing a good job of trying to play it cool, she can tell. But after all they've been through—after whatever hot mess the past few days have been—it's obvious that something's on his mind, that he's trying to get the words out before losing his nerve. Without thinking, she reaches over, and squeezes his hand.

"It's—my familiar was returned, last night," he says, as if that explains anything. "I'd wanted to tell you yesterday, but with everything else going on, I..."

"Hey." She shoots him a small smile. "Yesterday was—hectic. I get it."

"It's...not just that." He rests his hand, tentative, on the stone, tilting it just slightly enough that the light reflects off its facets. Like some kind of—weird, magic baby disco ball. Like something very, _very_ not from her world.

"He's in here somewhere, you know." He's studying the stone like a hawk, but his voice is—hard to read. Half academic, half bittersweet, all uncertain, almost like he's talking to himself as much as he is to her. "I'm still not quite sure how he did it. Emrys—_Merlin_, I mean. There are...quite a lot of them."

_Whatever he did_, she thinks, _I'm going to have to get a new microwave._ But—she's struck by the bald uncertainty on his features. It's not an expression, she imagines, that he wears often.

"Is he—" She doesn't want to say _normal_, because she knows the term is next to meaningless, but also because—she's pretty sure, given the circumstances, there's no way the answer could be _yes_. So she settles for: "Is he—okay, in there?"

"As much as can be expected, I suppose. We—there's a certain amount of—ugh. _Familiarity_." He makes a face at the pun, and she tries, not very successfully, to hide a laugh. "What I mean is: you learn a bit about the baby, over the years, simply by the nature of the relationship. And I know—I know about children in _theory_. They seemed—happy, or at least sleeping, the last time I looked." He tilts the stone again, just slightly, before adding: "Though I wouldn't keep them in here indefinitely."

She looks at the stone. The thought of them—all those children, only _babies_—it still makes her heart ache. She wants to throw every resource the hospital might have at his disposal. Even as she also really, truly does not want to imagine the investigations that will follow the appearance of _thousands_ of unidentified, undocumented babies from a SoCal suburb.

An absurd thought occurs to her. She immediately, _emphatically_ pushes it down.

(She's been down that road once already, and single parenting isn't exactly something she's jumping to go through again. Let alone with—_magic_ babies, of all things.)

"But—regardless." She tries to steady herself. "They're okay for now, right?"

"Oh, certainly. It's—as I said, the crystal is a cunning piece of work." He looks at it again, tilting it just so; the afternoon light reflects off it like flame off a mosaic, like the sun off the sea. "Some kind of stasis, on top of whatever he did to fold so much space..."

He's being a _nerd_, she realizes.

"You weren't kidding, were you?" She can't help smiling softly. "When you said you knew a lot about magic."

His ears flick again, and—oh. She wonders if trolls blush.

"It's a useful skill," he says, like _magic_ is on the same level as _knowing how to sew a button_ or_ parallel parking_. "And I've had—a long time, to practice."

_A long time_. Here, now, on the other side of the end of the world, she wonders if she could just ask. Even as it still feels too—too _much_, to just put out in the open. She—she still wants to know, she thinks. She wants to know a lot of things about him.

But maybe she could handle waiting, if it meant he'd tell her freely.

The thought is—intriguing. It's a possibility she's distinctly interested in entertaining.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Have you ever seen him?"

"I—the baby?" He sounds surprised by the question, though not in a bad way. "I _used_ to—check in, I suppose you could call it, any chance I got. Of course, mirrors were harder to come by, in those days..."

None of which actually explains anything. She makes a mystified face, but he must mistake it for something else. He ducks his head.

"You must think we're heartless, I suppose."

"No, but—" She pushes aside her newly-roused curiosity—_mirrors?_—and tries to put her earlier thought into clearer words. "It's just, if I was—linked, or tied, or whatever, to a little troll baby. However it was. Even if I never saw them, I feel like I would end up..."

She gestures, ineloquently. It might not be helped by the mug she's still holding (_world's okayest phlebotomist_—which, oh, is definitely an escapee from work).

He seems to understand, though, and gives her a fond look. "As I told you once—you have a soft heart, my dear."

She laughs. She knows when she's been seen.

"It's hard to explain what they are for us. It's—of course I don't—he's only a _child_," he says, and for once, the simplicity of the statement really does explain everything. "But a familiar—they're the entire reason we, _changelings_, are as we are. With them on the other side of the world, we're—we _were_ free to move in this one—through the dark and the light, where no other step may follow."

The words have the rhythm of frequent, familiar (_hah_) recitation. But at the same time—he sounds so _adrift_.

"But there can only be one," she says softly. She feels an intense rush of—something. Not quite pity, but—a clear, sudden understanding.

She moves, without thinking, to lay a hand on his shoulder, before stopping herself. She—perhaps it might be unwelcome.

"With him back," she says, half a guess, "you can't change any more."

"The enchantment's been broken, yes." And then, just like that, his voice is carefully back to _neutral_. He pulls himself up to sit a little straighter.

"I—I'd wanted to warn you. For you to hear it from me, not—not as a surprise." He looks over to her, then, eyes clear and piercing. He looks—not desperate, but deeply, terrifyingly sincere. "I'm not—I'm under no delusions, about this." He gestures to himself. "Whatever is between us, Barbara, I'll understand if this—if you'd rather we—go our separate ways. Only say the word—"

Maybe it's—the whole living-through-the-apocalypse _thing_. Maybe her brain's still rebooting, from—everything else. Maybe it's just this _extraordinarily_ shitty coffee. But it takes her a moment to really parse what he's saying.

And: on the one hand, she can tell he's _babbling_. As startling as it is to see: she's seen him worried and agitated before, even frightened, but never this nervous.

But on the other hand: _what_ _the _fuck,_ Walt._

She knows. She _knows_. It's not an entirely unreasonable assumption. And she remembers—she _remembers_ what they'd said about him, when they'd been in Trollmarket. But between _them_—after _everything_ they'd been through—

She thinks of a dream. Of _someone who can help your son_. Of the feather-shaped knife, lying on her dresser just upstairs. She hadn't been able to part with it.

Before her brain can catch up and stop her, she looks out at her yard, and takes a deep breath.

"Move in with me."

He chokes on the coffee. For once, she's absolutely sure it's not because she made it.

"I mean it," she says quickly. "I've—I've got the space. We could convert the basement, or—" She has to get the words out, before she looks up to him again, before her courage fails her. She looks down to her hands, curled around her half-empty mug. "This house isn't built for one. With Jim around, that was one thing. But with him out in—Troll New Jersey, or wherever, it'll just be me. Unless it isn't." Then, she can't stand it anymore, and she dares a glance over at him. "And maybe...maybe I don't want it to be."

A beat passes. Then:

"You can't be serious," he says, deadpan.

"Oh, do _not_ fucking test me, Strickler. You don't get to just—to just Mr. Darcy your way out of this, 'one word from you will silence me forever,' _not_ this time." She turns to face him. "After—after _everything_ that's happened, between us. You think I—that that's—"

But his eyes go wide, and—_oh_, yeah, that is _definitely_ a blush.

"You brought an undead assassin into my house," she says. "But you helped my son. You _saved_ me, in the museum."

_We were about to die,_ she thinks_, and you told me I was worth the world. _

The silence hangs between them for a very long moment. She's laid out her case. It—whatever this is, it doesn't have to be perfect. But there's more than one way to change. And she desperately, _desperately_ wants this to work.

"I—" He swallows. "Well. If—if you like."

She blinks. It _can't_ have been that easy.

"Really?"

He tilts his head. "My dear, surely you know what they say about _discretion_ and _valor_."

She leans her head against his shoulder, heedless of the knives. She feels him tense, just for a moment, but—he's tall enough, it's not a problem. Then—

"I expect I'll need to—make arrangements."

Her breath catches. _Please don't get cold feet_. _Please, _please_ don't get cold feet—_

"Arrangements?"

"I—my things. My apartment, I just..." He shifts the stone across his lap. When she gives him a curious look, he explains: "I never actually expected the Eternal Night to _end_."

"Oh—well." She'd never actually thought about his apartment before. It's—an intriguing thought. "I can carry a mean box, y'know."

He snorts. "And be seen moving _this_ into your house?"

"I am fearless, and therefore powerful."

She hears him huff, soft and fond. "Don't I know it, my dear."

She turns her head into his arm, and tries, desperately, not to think about how hard she must be blushing. There might be worse things, she thinks, than a cushion of living stone.

They sit for a moment, just like that. Pointedly not-drinking their coffee. Taking in—everything. The sounds, the _sun_, the pleasure of the sweet, bright afternoon neither of them had expected. Being—close. It's nice. Very sappy, very—cheesy. But _nice_.

The moment, of course, is ruined, when her stomach growls. Loudly.

"Hey." She pitches her voice as neutral as she can. "You know. I think your coffee's getting cold."

"I—I'm working on it." He loyally readjusts his grip on the cup. "We've just been talking, and—"

"Oh, come on." She bumps her shoulder to his, heedless of the flush on her cheeks, and tries not to laugh. "We made it through the apocalypse. We've been through _troll jail_ together, you don't have to butter me up _that_ bad."

He gives her an adoring look, and she easily retrieves the mug from his hand.

"Jim says there's apparently waffles in the fridge." The thought of his absence still stings, but—not as much as it might have, before he'd texted. She pulls herself up off the step, lightly as she can. "Blueberry lemon, if you—can eat that? Still?"

He doesn't answer, but his eyes go wide, and she can't help but notice his pupils go a little rounder. Human or no, she knows that look.

"Anyway," she continues, "the microwave is busted. But Jim said he left instructions." She holds out a hand, and fixes him with a look she hopes is—well. "How handy are you with an oven?"

"My _dear_ doctor." That smile is—dangerous. His voice is so warm. "I'm sure I could make myself useful."

She grins. Then, he takes her hand, and she balances his mug in hers, and they walk into her kitchen, together, to start making the very first breakfast after the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of this fic is taken from [the dream](https://poets.org/poem/dream), by edna st. vincent millay.
> 
> now featuring [SWEET FIC ART](https://bifacialler.tumblr.com/post/189470783279/psa-dreamcrow-s-fic-is-the-good-shit-and) (of one of my FAVORITE scenes, no less) from [ler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler/pseuds/Ler)!! *____*
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who's commented, reblogged, liked, and read!! but stay tuned… these idiots’ adventures aren’t over yet ( •̀ᄇ• ́)ﻭ✧


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